Time, time, time...to see what’s become of my drinking
Never saw myself as a mild drinker. Not yet. One day, probably. Slumped in some far distant future snug, maybe on the moon, more likely a corrugated drinking shack on the edge of a Lancashire shantytown, perhaps, yes, mild will be just the ticket.
But not yet. I’m only 44. There’s no need. Not yet.
Then a Black Cat crossed my path and everything changed.
The mild in question was pulled for me in the handsome Malthouse Farm pub in Moss Lane, Whittle-le-Woods, on Easter Monday, then sipped over a marvellous roast platter.
Blissful in my ignorance, of course. Ordered said Moorhouse ale purely at random, clueless and having taken no more than a quick snap of the pump, right, largely on strength of its name.
The glass placed before me was dark enough, with a decent creamy head, that I took it for, and imbibed it as, a porter or a stout.
Smelled delicious, roast malty chocolate and nuts, and flew away like the session ale I learned it to be on Tuesday evening.
For the scales did not fall from my eyes until then, while leafing through Lancashire CAMRA’s excellent monthly mag.
Let’s Make May Mild Month alliterated a regular contributor, before proceeding to reel off a list of milds the curious might wish to try. And there it was. Black Cat. Official confirmation. Am old.
Ah well, at least the beer at Malthouse Farm is still young and fresh – and none more than the pub’s eponymously named brew, another Moorhouse effort, knocked-up special for this lovely 19th century maltsters turned eating-drinking slice of heaven by the Leeds Liverpool Canal.
A decent glass, pale, fragrant and bitter with a light foamy head. Give me that, a seat by the water, a pleasantly full gut and some sunshine and let me sit back to age gracefully.