THE BEER BEAT: England, or one man's heightened cholesterol panic is another man's nostalgic repast (2013).

Having just now introduced an eager young student to the delightful concept of stargazy pie ...

 ... with pilchard heads gloriously intact, I found myself hungry for English comfort food and daydreaming about Real Ale, and with the pantry barren of Marmite, made do instead with kippers and my last bottle of Fuller's ESB.

The words of Inspector Morse, classic British television police crime solver, popped into my head.

“The secret of a happy life is to know when to stop – and then go that bit further.”

I was plunged into a reverie about our last trip to the United Kingdom in 2013.

---

The very least I could do during two weeks spent in England’s lovely West Country was to ingest my gout medicine each and every morning without fail – preferably washed down with a pint of cask-conditioned Bitter from one of those nearby pubs nearby dispensing it, but in a pinch, grudgingly conceding the utility of mere water.

Yes, I know: Fish do IT in THAT. The solution? Eat more fish, especially with chips ... or, a genuine pasty.

Somewhere a health fanatic reads and brays with dismay, but have no fear. It’s only despairing, defeatist clatter of the sort Winston Churchill wouldn’t have countenanced, even after his morning bottle of champagne, and these naysayers are inaudible to me — fully muffled by the cacophonous sizzle of a traditional English breakfast frying atop the stove, even the waxy tomato from Tesco’s, because it is destined for maximum exposure to hot oil just like all the rest.

Queue the Elgar, and consider this partial list of foodstuffs joyfully consumed during my holiday, including both local “English” fare and widely available culinary options borrowed from elsewhere.

Anchovies fillets (fresh)
Bacon
Baked beans
Bangers and mash
Black pudding (i.e., blood sausage)
Cornish pasties
Crab sandwiches
Egg rolls
Falafel
Fish pie (not Stargazy pie, alas)
Gajrati (regional vegetarian Indian)
Haddock and chips
Pie, mash, eel and liquor (the latter is gravy)
Pizza (loaded)
Smoked salmon
Spanish tapas
Steak & kidney pie
Thai red curry
Yorkshire pudding

Alas, I digress. Generally it is my custom to entertain and inform in purely fermentable measures of prose, and yet during this most recent English holiday, I found it quite unthinkable to separate the culinary from the ale-mentary.

Overall, ways of the new were not my objective, and I did not search for top chefs flashing their own branded apron and sauce wear. Rather, my task was to focus on the glories of the much maligned traditional English table, and to accompany them with the products of classic native ale-making.

---

Mission accomplished. First, let’s review the liquidity to be found in a reference volume.

Just after purchasing plane tickets, and before any other arrangements had been made, I purchased the essential book for ale hunting in the United Kingdom: “Campaign for Real Ale (CAMRA) Good Beer Guide,” edited by Roger Protz, and fully revised for publication each year.

CAMRA is the beer world’s oldest and most doggedly pervasive consumer protection society, founded in 1973 for the express purposes of espousing and protecting cask-conditioned “real” ale from the intrusions of modern times. What exactly is cask-conditioned “real” ale? CAMRA explains:

Real ale is a natural product brewed using traditional ingredients and left to mature in the cask (container) from which it is served in the pub through a process called secondary fermentation. It is this process which makes real ale unique amongst beers and develops the wonderful tastes and aromas which processed beers can never provide.

Just know that traditional cask-conditioned ale is a living entity. It is pre-industrial, “slow” beer at its finest, predating every advance in ease of packaging, and preceding all processing shortcuts undertaken for the sake of modernity.

Consequently, as a product requiring training, thought and effort to maintain and dispense properly, real ale and the pub where it is consumed are inextricably linked. In America, the “coldest beer in town” merely signposts the triumph of refrigeration. In England, the best pint of real ale within walking distance of a bus stop is stirring testament to the publican’s commitment to craft.

That’s why CAMRA’S beer guide is vital. The organization’s local chapter members serve as diligent boots on the ground, studiously analyzing ales and pubs on a daily basis. Their intelligence gathering is the heart of the book, making it the top source of information for the visitor who cares less about his bed and breakfast than finding pints of fresh ale.

Which pubs are tops at tending their firkins? What do they usually pour? Do they serve snacks or meals? Are they hosts for discourse in their community? The book provides these answers, and many more.

My first visit to Devon and Cornwall was in 2009, and four years later, there have been changes in the pub scene. Owing to regulatory, political and societal factors too numerous to recount, pubs in the UK are diminishing in number, and that’s a bad sign. At the same time, there are more breweries now at work than at any point in a half-century.

Dozens of newcomers are brewing classic ale styles — Mild, Bitter, IPA, Stout and Porter – alongside newer variations, and they’re supplying local pubs. There may be fewer venues, but the range of choice probably is greater. Session strengths (below 4.5% abv) remain the norm, and while I might drop names (St. Austell, Skinner’s, Summerskill and Bridgetown), it wouldn’t matter, because none of the beers brewed by these excellent breweries are available anywhere close to Louisville.

This is as it should be. They await your arrival, over there.

---

On a sunny Sunday in July, my wife’s cousin drove us from the city of Plymouth to the Dartmoor National Park. In Merrivale, surrounded by rolling, sparse uplands and freely roaming sheep, we dined at a venerable establishment called the Dartmoor Inn.

I enjoyed roast beef with gravy, cabbage, vegetables and Yorkshire pudding. Two pints of well-tuned local Jail Ale from the Dartmoor Brewery in nearby Princetown completed this time-honored Sunday Roast.

Frankly, I gloried in the ambiance: Dark walls, wooden beams, a low-hanging ceiling and a fireplace, with humps, stoops and irregular measurements, and overall, minimal space for a heavyweight like me to navigate. The roasted meal was deliciously overcooked, and the ale’s ideally balanced malt and hops kept my palate sharp amid the meat and butter. It was the embodiment of a lifetime’s fascination with BBC News, “The Last of the Summer Wine” and maritime gin rations.

But what of the calories and cholesterol?

Whenever healthfulness began encroaching, I merely reached for another custard tart, found the closest CAMRA-listed pub, and waited for the feeling to pass.

Brew, Britannia.

THE BEER BEAT: The Dolphin, one of my favorite pubs in the world.

Plymouth, England.

The Hoe is an open green space situated atop a promontory facing south to the sea, where Sir Francis Drake is said to have chosen the leisurely consummation of a lawn bowling session prior to sailing out to face the approaching Spanish Armada.

History does not record Drake’s choice of beverage.

The nearby Barbican is a relatively small but atmospheric quarter of older buildings that somehow survived both World War II air raids and a post-war rebuilding effort that seemed to consciously mimic socialist Bucharest’s.

The Barbican tumbles down the eastern slope of the Hoe’s weather-beaten cliffs and meets Plymouth’s old port, now given over to tourism and pleasure craft.

The Royal Navy base and commercial docks, catnip for the Luftwaffe, are located on the west side of the Hoe, along the mouth of the Tamar River. Beyond the Tamar is Cornwall, with the ocean gradually closing in on three sides until land’s end.

These Cornish expanses range far beyond today’s modest destination, the Barbican institution known variously as the Dolphin Hotel, Inn or Pub.

I’ll call it The Dolphin, a “proper” working pub, located mere yards from the spot where the Mayflower departed England for America. Reversing historical travel patterns, we visited Plymouth in 2009, finding The Dolphin suitably equipped with fine ale and delightfully resistant to modern refurbishment.

It was given a minor renovation shortly thereafter, though it seemed little changed when we returned in 2013. A pub regular told me the loos were vastly improved, so there’s that.

The Dolphin’s license holder and publican is Billy Holmes, whose father ran it before him. We haven’t met, but he’s been on duty long enough to become a community fixture.

"We don't do much music, well not more than half a dozen times a year, and we don't do the sports bar thing because that's not us. People come in here because they want a drink and a chat.

"And we don't do food. What would be the point with all the takeaways in the Barbican? People come in here with their fish and chips and have a drink, and that's fine."

Given the chance to complain about the competition from supermarkets selling cut-price booze, he shrugs his shoulders. Young binge drinkers are certainly not Billy's market. Real ale drinkers are; with at least eight on tap, The Dolphin is popular with those who like their beer 'live'.

Few such pubs can boast a semi-official house artist. The late Beryl Cook was a painter who moved to Plymouth after the retirement of her husband. They opened a guest house nearby, and gradually Cook gained fame as an artist. Because The Dolphin was her local, several of her paintings chronicle pub life.

For a visitor, The Dolphin is a fine example of what makes a pub great. The old harbor location is tourist-friendly and the styling traditional, but the landlord hasn’t applied unnecessary gloss and glitz, and he prefers to run the establishment for the sake of its regulars rather than commoditize it.

Imagine that.

Consequently, The Dolphin is comfortable without being pretentious. It isn’t someone’s abstract marketing concept. Rather, it is real – and so is the ale, although it will strike some American beer geeks as unusual to learn that the pub’s main draw, at least for me, was the chance to drink Bass Pale Ale served in a rigorously traditional and characteristically English manner.

The firkin, a keg of unique and purpose-built design, lies slightly tilted on its side in a cradle at room temperature. A wooden peg (spile) faces skyward, filling a hole that had been punched at tapping.

A faucet, tapped into place with a rubber mallet, protrudes horizontally from the firkin. The onrushing ale is borne on a gravity trail, pouring from the opened faucet into a waiting pint glass, cool but not cold, with minimal yet sufficient natural carbonation.

Perhaps the only nod to modernity is the use of stainless steel, rather than wood, to fabricate the firkin. Otherwise, it is likely that Plymouth’s publicans were filling tankards in like fashion almost four hundred years ago as the Pilgrims prepared for their voyage to the New World by loading their own barrels of ale onto the Mayflower.

When they ran out, it was time to find a place to brew more.

The Dolphin decants its Bass at room temperature in this simple, old-fashioned way, unpasteurized, and without the forced-pressure C02 system to which the world has grown accustomed, because the ale itself is naturally carbonated, or cask-conditioned, in the firkin by means of a secondary fermentation.

Although comparatively few English pubs follow the venerable example of the Dolphin’s gravity-pour method, many of them continue to vend one or more cask-conditioned ales with the help of a beer engine, colloquially referred to as a hand pump, or a hand-pull.

Their firkins are stored in the coolness of the cellar, where they are tended and prepped for serving. When ready, the ale is pumped by the barman into eager pint glasses.

At their traditional finest, balance is the watchword for all English real ales, especially those quaffable Bitters, and cask-conditioning is more than a way of drinking. It’s a way of thinking.

Flavors are subtle and even simplistic, yet unmistakably rendered. The malt character is rich and sweetish, with a touch of fruitiness. The classic English hop varieties are elegant, packing less of a bitter punch than their American cousins.

Historically, the alcoholic strength of English ale tends to be lower than one might expect, perhaps averaging around 4% abv. It is this sessionability that one misses most here in America, where we’re usually packing taps with 6% abv beers or higher.

Cask-conditioned “real” ale is thirst quenching or contemplative, depending on one’s mood. It tells the story of slow food, green living and an appreciation of traditional virtues in food and drink.

A place like The Dolphin is real ale’s natural urban habitat. We’ll make it back there some day, hoping the Bass is still pouring.

An American in Plymouth, and her guidebook.

Regular readers may recall two recent visits by the Confidentials to Plymouth, a city (and region, including the counties of Devon and nearby Cornwall) with which we're quite enamored. My wife's cousin lives there, and I'd be happy to return when time allows.

Reading this account takes me back to days of being a footloose, wannabe expatriate. I never quite made the grade, and now you're stuck with me. But a boy can dream, and live vicariously through the experiences of others.

New book about an American's experiences of living in Plymouth even has a Janner dictionary (Plymouth Herald)

Moving to a new city can be a daunting prospect for anyone, but what about moving to a new country? EMILY STEWART, a young expat, writer and yoga instructor, has done just that and has been detailing her experiences via social media, blogs and a new book - to 'discover the places Lonely Planet forgets to write about'.

"Proper job! It's England that's cut off from Cornwall, not the other way round."

My wife's cousin lives in Plymouth, and so when we visited her last summer, our route by train from London passed through Dawlish, shown above, which was hit hard by recent storms. The rail line in Dawlish was utterly wrecked. Further down the coast, at Looe, there was epic flooding.

Dawlish and Plymouth are in Devon, and Looe is in Cornwall, right across the river from Plymouth to the west. Along with Dorset and Somerset, these counties are referred to as the West Country. I'd never traveled in these places prior to 2009, and have become quite enamored of them in two journeys since.

Jeff Gillenwater made sure I saw this commentary by a Cornwall native, which places the storm-driven transport infrastructure damage in a wider context. Permit me to add that life in a devolved Cornwall would be entirely acceptable for an exile like me, so long as St. Austell and Skinner's continue making fine ales.

Note: "Proper job" is an expression of satisfaction in regional vernacular, and also is an ale brewed by St. Austell.

Proper job! It's England that's cut off from Cornwall, not the other way round; We look west for our weather, scrutinising the Atlantic storms for surf. Without a rail link to London we're more Cornish than ever, by The Kernow King (Guardian)

... Then I spotted the tweet, the one I had been waiting for: "The bad news is Cornwall is cut off from England. On the other hand, the good news is Cornwall is cut off from England". Wuh! Hell up!

You see, we've always felt different in Cornwall. Not just cut off. The majority of us don't feel especially English, which really winds some outsiders up because they think it means we don't like them. It's why squillions of people come to Cornwall every year! Our history, our language, our culture, our sports, our people … we're Cornish before we're anything else. Without that rail link, we may well be cut off, but because communities pull together for each other, we're even more Cornish now.

Tesco, cheap food and farmers markets.

Tesco is ubiquitous in the UK. On our recent visit, there was one located two hundred yards away from Jennie's house in Plymouth, and immediately behind the Brook Green Hotel in London. Eyebrows arched just a bit when we identified Plymouth's older public market building downtown as a destination; even though our hosts lamented the British public's proclivity to buy only what is least expensive and on special at supermarkets, obviously it would be a much longer commute from the northside to the market than merely walking to the Tesco. We enjoyed the market, nonetheless: Butchers, bakers, green grocers and pasty makers were there, alongside the usual ephemera. As an aside, we visited the New Albany Farmers Market on Saturday before heading to Indianapolis, and I've never seen it more crowded. Is it time to commence Saturday morning block parties?

Tesco boss says cheap food era is over; Philip Clarke admits prices will rise as poll finds UK shoppers would pay more to back farmers, by Jay Rayner (Guardian)

Major food price rises are all but inevitable, the chief executive of Britain's biggest supermarket chain has admitted. Speaking exclusively to the Observer, Philip Clarke of Tesco, which was heavily implicated in the horsemeat scandal, said that rising global demand means the historic low prices to which British consumers have become used are now unsustainable.

"Over the long run I think food prices and the proportion of income spent on food may well be going up," he said. "Because of growing demand it is going to change. It is the basic law of supply and demand."

ON THE AVENUES: Sunscreen, lube, and Dr. Tom's cabin.

ON THE AVENUES: Sunscreen, lube, and Dr. Tom's cabin.

A weekly web column by Roger A. Baylor. 

While shopping last Sunday afternoon in Plymouth, England, it occurred to me that never in my life had I seen as many people suffering from explosive, crimson sunburn.

This was not the way it was supposed to be. Apparently the Plymouth spring was cool and rainy, and the gloom extended all the way into summer -- until the precise moment we stepped off the plane at Heathrow.

It’s a three and a half hour train trip from London’s Paddington rail station to Plymouth, and by the time we arrived on the afternoon of July 4, it was 80 degrees and sunny, with a cloudless blue sky. This is the way it stayed the entire time we were there, eleven days in all, before returning for a final night in London, where at least an occasional thin cloud could be seen, albeit without shade.

We should have invoiced them, such was their delight at having brought such lovely weather.

Daytime temperatures then rose to the mid-eighties, which doesn’t sound like much for the Ohio Valley, but can be brutal in a place like England, which largely is without air conditioning. Usually there’s no need. The historic absence of hot summer sunshine might explain the prices for sunscreen, nudging toward $15 at a drugstore in the Cornish coastal town of Looe.

We bought it anyway. Beets are meant to be eaten, not worn, and I feared that Dr. Tom Harris might be watching, ready to parachute down and levy a sunburn tax.

---

Just before shipping out of town for our excursion to merry old England, I learned that the Floyd County Health Department had finally, presumably grudgingly, deigned to schedule a board hearing for NABC’s contention that it possesses absolutely no statutory precedent for its recent awakened control fetish, whereby temporary beer vendors are expected to purchase temporary food permits each time plastic cups are filled.

Of course Harris, the agency’s chieftain already has gone on record in the newspaper to dismiss NABC’s case before it has been scheduled, much less heard, which naturally makes a mockery of due process, and not coincidentally belies an institutional arrogance with which local food service purveyors have long been intimately, and painfully, familiar.

It is significant, but entirely unsurprising, that I’ve yet to be personally informed by the FCHD of this July 25 hearing date before the board. Transparency and humor aren’t the only qualities eluding the agency’s mandate, communications from whom unfailingly conjure an image of kidney stones passing or Liteweights failing to fathom real beer flavor. I know the date only because my legal advisor, Laszlo, was dispatched to confer with the department’s lawyer, proving yet again that common sense invariably is not.

---

Kindly know that it is my longtime habit to allow sleeping dogs and regulators their detached snoozing, while their snores are sufferable, but when the fangs are bared and a bureaucrat’s eyes begin to lie, I can’t hide my desire to fight back with as much rhetorical firepower as can be mustered.

However, this scrap isn't something to be concluded without measured deliberation, and accordingly, having decided there are important principles of jurisdiction involved, I’m in this game to win even as it annoys me to no end that I must be playing charades like these against my will.

Except that time-wasting charades probably are the department's point.

To me, perhaps the single most important aspect of this foolishness is arriving at a determination of its exact instigator. Neither a computer nor Fortuna’s wheel can be blamed; this is a human’s gambit. Someone in the FCHD decided to push this particular newfangled envelope, perhaps at his or her own behest, or maybe because outside interests decided that a campaign of petty harassment would be amusing.

It is impossible to preclude culpability on the part of elected officials, particularly those in the county, whose cowardice toward funding their own agencies constantly promotes a “hold your own bake sale if you want money” mentality. Hypothetically, it’s a short step from prevailing county governmental dysfunction to someone in the health department concluding that there is a way to raise a few extra dollars, and if no one protests, a potential turf precedent useful for tightening future vises, both here and elsewhere in the state.

They’ll not land such a precedent without a struggle, because the fact remains that beer and brewing are the domains of the federal government in the brewhouse, and the state of Indiana at the point of dispense. NABC is amply regulated by those entities entitled to do so. There’s a reason why it’s always worked this way, and there needs to be proof why this way has suddenly changed. Pretending "it's always been" is purely Orwellian, and needs to be exposed for the fraudulence such attitudes foist.

It is my belief that the Floyd County Health Department is holding a pair of threes and bluffing. I could be wrong, and we’ll know soon enough. Irrespective of the outcome next week, rest assured that matters will not stop here. As a director on the board of the Brewers of Indiana Guild, I’ll be pushing for legislative clarifications at the state level. Meanwhile, I’d love to explain all of my impending game strategies, but cannot do so until showtime at last arrives.

Suffice to say that if what I’ve heard to date about the FCHD’s chosen justification is true, there’s no more principle involved on its end than the typical napping mutt's, who licks his nuts primarily because he can.

That’s fine for the canine, but shouldn’t we expect something a bit more elevated than semantics, coin flips and an exaggerated sense of self-importance from the Olympian guardians of public safety?

Break's over. Back on my head.

What was that? It's been raining in July? Here?

That explains the knee-high grass.

We returned last night from our holiday in over-heated Southwest England, and boy, was it needed.

For two weeks, I did NOT awaken each morning and begin throwing metaphorical punches at the second-raters -- although Jeff tossed a few haymakers in the interim.

For two weeks, I did NOT so much as touch an electronic device or phone (mobile or otherwise). I'd forgotten how enriching life can be while untethered, and I'm glad the missus forced me to comply. Consider it a future trend.

For two weeks, I did NOT think about work ... well, not too much.

Rather, there was plenty of cask-conditioned real ale and traditional English culinary delights; strolls on the Dartmoor and a coastal ferry to Cornwall; celebrations as Andy Murray won Wimbledon and Plymouth Argyle's ongoing efforts to move up the league table; and quite a lot more.

Now, as oft times before, the countdown begins. Whither the afterglow? How long until my excellent post-jaunt intentions dissolve in the eternal, primordial, under-achieving New Albany muck?

Thanks to Jeff, Sandra, Graham and the NABC crew for making this possible.

Plymouth Day 11: Garden detox.

After the day-long pub crawl in Totnes on Saturday, Sunday was destined to be a very slow day. It was the time for repacking in preparation for the train to London on Monday morning, and quite frankly, some detox was required.

There was an afternoon meal and quite a bit of laziness in the garden, a corner of which is given over to Tony's aviary, seen to the rear of the photo. Interestingly, he breeds racing pigeons; I learned that two words considered impolite to pigeon breeders are "peregrine falcons." Tony also introduced us to a noteworthy British sit-com from former times: Only Fools and Horses.

I nursed some white wine and even drank a can of lager. You do what you gotta do.

(The account of our visit to the UK is being posted piecemeal, backdated to the actual day)

Plymouth Day 9: Plymouth Beer Festival 2013.

Plymouth's basketball team plays at the Pavilions, and it has hosted numerous rock shows over the past quarter century, from INXS to Papa Roach. Our introduction to the venue came on the occasion of the Plymouth Beer Festival, an annual two-day event hosted by the city's CAMRA (Campaign for Real Ale) chapter.

There were cask-conditioned, naturally fermented "real ales" from Southern and Northern England, and from the counties of Devon and Corwall. A whole section was devoted to (apple) cider and (pear) perry.

We paid 10 pounds ($15) each at the door and received souvenir pint glasses with a half-pint pouring line, programs, and three, maybe four tokens, each redeemable for a half-pint. No four-hour sampling session in the American manner, this one's about drinking halves and fulls of what you like, buying extra tokens as needed, and staying all day long if necessary.

We'd already been shopping earlier in the morning, and checked into the festival around noon, when it opened, before adjourning to a nearby movie theater for Despicable Me 2 ... then coming back into the fest (pass outs are permitted) for a few finishing drinks: Mild, Porter, Bitter, an American-style Double IPA (St. Austell's Big Job) and even an alcoholic ginger beer with considerable heft and peppery spiciness.  

Dinner was taken at Veggie Perrin's, a simply amazing, all-vegetarian Indian restaurant featuring online.com/cuisine/">Gujarati cuisine; reasonable portions with amazing flavor, sans meat, and unlike any Indian food I've ever had. It is highly recommended, and came on the heels of its polar opposite, a massive, traditional fried breakfast prepared by Jennie to start the day, one with bangers, bacon, hash brown potatoes, beans, blood sausage (okay, black pudding) and tomatoes.

I'm surprised there was room for the beer. Somehow, I managed.

(The account of our visit to the UK is being posted piecemeal, backdated to the actual day)

Plymouth Day 6: Fortescue and Mutley Plain.

In early afternoon, we grabbed a bus from our base in Honicknowle, which is a few miles north of Plymouth's city center, to Mutley Plain -- a street, but also the name for the neighborhood. The crown jewel of Mutley Plain is the Fortescue Pub, winner of the local Campaign for Real Ale chapter's "best of" numerous time.

Around eight well-tended cask ales are pouring at any given time, and my attention was drawn to the Blue Anchor Spingo Special, a rarity from a pub brewery in Cornwall. At 6.6%, it's strong by English standards (though not by Hoptimus's standards). In the photo above, I'm holding a Spingo in one hand and a plastic cap from a tub of Sancho Miguel's Salsa. I promised them I'd take a photo.

While nursing the Spingo, I noticed that St. Austell Proper Job was available, which led to a second pint, which led in turn to two more pints of Proper Job in the handy carry-out container, to be enjoyed back home in the garden. Fastened by a clip, it forms a spout reminiscent of elementary school milk cartons. Unlike growlers, it needs to be consumed quickly.

We may have played a game of Scrabble in the blue, red and grey. If so, I imagine I lost.

(The account of our visit to the UK is being posted piecemeal, backdated to the actual day)

Plymouth Day 5: Cawsand and Edgcumbe.

With weather still sunny and hot, Monday seemed an ideal day for a cool, breezy boat ride from Plymouth harbor to the tiny port of Cawsand. The "county line" between Devon and Cornwall is the River Tamar, and Cawsand is just another bay over from Plymouth, floating west. We arrived before lunch and immediately retired to the adjacent pub, where I richly enjoyed two pints of Skinner's Betty Stogs before attacking a Cornish pasty.

There followed a bus ride over the hill to the Mt. Edgcumbe House and Park, a jaunt through the grounds and formal garden, and a return ferry to Plymouth's commercial harbor -- but not before two glorious pints of St. Austell Trelawny, a memorable ale brewed with Galaxy hops from Tasmania. Session ale is the future, indeed.

(The account of our visit to the UK is being posted piecemeal, backdated to the actual day)

Plymouth Day 3: The Hoe and Barbican.

In Plymouth, the Hoe lies atop a promontory facing the sea, and is the place where Sir Francis Drake famously chose to conclude his lawn bowling before sailing out to face the approaching Spanish Armada.

The Barbican is a relatively small but atmospheric quarter of older buildings that somehow survived both the Luftwaffe's air raids and a post-war rebuilding effort that mimicked Bucharest. The Barbican tumbles down the eastern slope of the hoe and meets the old port, now given over to tourism and pleasure craft. The Royal Navy and commercial docks are located to the west, on the other side of the Hoe, along the mouth of the Tamar River.

The pint being drained is within the comfortable confines of The Dolphin, which is a wonderful spot to contemplate well-tended cask ale.

(The account of our visit to the UK is being posted piecemeal, backdated to the actual day)

Plymouth Day 2: Plympton.

Plympton is to the east of Plymouth proper, and Jennie's mother lives there. There's a River Plym, as well. The older part of town has that rocky, jumbled feel, with hedgerows, gardens and vegetation in proliferation. Clean right angles are few and far between. The castle was built 1,000 years ago, and from the hilltop one can see the Dartmoor looming just to the north.

Upon returning to the home base, we embarked upon a celebration of D's birthday, and so kindly permit me to wish "Happy Birthday" to the missus, on the occasion of standing on ancestral turf.

(The account of our visit to the UK is being posted piecemeal, backdated to the actual day)

Plymouth Day 1: Getting there.

We arrived in Plymouth on July 4, and no fireworks awaited us.

Much to my relief.

Our hosts Jennie (D's cousin) and her friend Tony, along with Meg, Jennie's friendly and ubiquitous Black Lab, had snacks, beef stew and bottle-conditioned beer on hand. We managed to stay awake until well past 10:00 p.m., then slept nine hours and were ready to go explore on Friday.

Traveling eastbound to Europe, you always hope for a smooth transfer. Delays can come at the end, on the way back, when it doesn't matter. Fortunately, our commute was routine and trouble-free: From Heathrow airport (via Chicago) to London Paddington train station aboard a rail shuttle, then on to Plymouth on the First Great Western route.

The countryside is fine but ordinary until a southwestern turn after Exeter, when the train skirts the seacoast around Newton Abbot. Then you know you're not in Nabb any longer.

For those still unaware, British Rail was privatized a very long time ago. My only annoyance with today's trains is the way they're not coming to resemble airliners in terms of seating, all open and maximized for squeezing people into rail cars, and without the person-meeting possibilities of compartments.

(The account of our visit to the UK is being posted piecemeal, backdated to the actual day)