Life has finally settled into a steady fermentation since moving into our new home. Things are bubbling along nicely, even if work occasionally gives the whole thing a vigorous shake.
Sadly, I'm spending far too much time away from home on business. At least three nights a week seem to be spent somewhere in the North East and, if the travel gods are feeling particularly mischievous, Northamptonshire gets thrown into the mix too. Nothing against Northamptonshire, of course, but from North Yorkshire it's a bit like volunteering for an additional stage of the Tour de France. Too far.
One unexpected benefit is that all this travelling hasn't hurt my running. Quite the opposite. Somehow I'm posting some of the fastest times I've managed in years while knocking out 50-70 miles a week, occasionally more. Quite how that works remains one of life's great mysteries. Especially given that I’m achieving some of my best times ever.
My working-away routine is now fairly well established. Wake up. Work. Work some more. Realise I'm desperately in need of a run to clear my head. Go for said run. Then return to the bar, order a pint and spend another two or three hours with my laptop propping up the bar like some sort of travelling management consultant who took a wrong turn and ended up in the craft beer scene.
Despite all these miles on the road, my favourite runs remain those around home on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Running through the beautiful North Yorkshire countryside is absolute bliss. No hotel corridors. No spreadsheets. Just quiet roads, rolling fields and the occasional sheep silently judging my form.
But this topic isn’t the aim of this blog. This is the story of a fantastic afternoon and evening spent with my new craft beer drinking buddy.
Who turns out to be my wife.
An Unexpected Festival Companion
I can't remember whether I've mentioned it before, but I had tickets booked for one of my bucket-list beer festivals: Rivington Farm Trip.
Unfortunately, my usual drinking companion had to pull out. I reached out to a few of my old Worcestershire brewing buddies, but with it being late notice and the August bank holiday weekend, there were no takers.
Then, rather unexpectedly, my wife volunteered.
Now that should probably have been less surprising than it was.
What started as occasionally stealing a sip of my IPA has gradually evolved into a full-blown hop habit. Back at our local craft beer bar, while I'd often suggest something sensible like a Helles, she'd invariably ask:
"What's the hoppiest IPA they’ve got?"
Not just any IPA, either.
The danker, hazier and more aggressively dry-hopped the better. If the beer looked like orange juice and came with an ABV beginning with an eight, she was interested. In hindsight, the warning signs were all there.
She's even been known to help me finish the occasional DIPA and remain completely unfazed, while I sit there wondering if my legs have stopped communicating properly with the rest of my body.
Setting Expectations
Naturally, I felt obliged to explain what she'd signed up for.
"This festival will be very friendly," I said. "However, it will almost certainly involve spending six-plus hours surrounded by middle-aged, bearded beer nerds discussing hop varieties with the seriousness usually reserved for international diplomacy."
She remained entirely undeterred. Excellent.
I also explained that I'd booked a budget hotel and that reaching the festival involved a 45-minute walk.
Again, not a problem.
This, ladies and gentlemen, is commitment.
Rain, Chorley and Other Obstacles
Our only moment of concern came when we approached the hotel in Chorley and the heavens absolutely opened. Not exactly ideal preparation for what is predominantly an outdoor festival.
Thankfully, it had more or less stopped by the time we'd parked up and we barely saw any rain for the rest of the day.
The walk to Rivington Farm was pleasant enough and, upon arrival, we immediately noticed something encouraging.
We were surrounded by people exactly like us.
Middle-aged couples.
Lots of them.
I've never felt quite so perfectly amongst my own people. A sea of craft beer enthusiasts discussing hop bills, brewery collaborations and festival strategy with the intensity of Premier League managers fighting relegation.
A Revolutionary Concept: Food First
After collecting our wristbands and tokens, I was laser-focused on executing my carefully curated beer-tasting strategy. My wife, however, introduced a radical idea.
Food first.
Honestly, this felt ground-breaking.
My normal beer festival routine generally works like this:
- Plan to eat.
- Start drinking.
- Forget to eat.
- Wonder why I'm surprisingly merry by mid-afternoon.
Apparently there is an alternative strategy where you consume food before working your way through half the UK's craft beer scene.
Who knew?
The pizza was excellent and, as it turns out, lining your stomach beforehand is absolutely a winning move.
Peak Beer Nerd Behaviour
With pizza successfully deployed, it was time to begin. I'd gone full beer geek and brought along a notebook and pen so I could record every beer and score it out of five before updating Untappd later. At that point I was probably one knitted brewery beanie away from becoming a walking craft beer stereotype.
My wife's approach was slightly different.
Beer arrives.
Enjoys beer.
Awards beer five out of five.
Another beer arrives.
Enjoys beer.
Awards beer five out of five.
Frankly, it was difficult to argue with such a robust scientific methodology but it would somewhat knacker my carefully derived Untappd rating process leading to worrying skewed results. Can’t let that happen.
The Festival Itself
Rivington absolutely nailed it. The atmosphere was superb. Friendly, relaxed and completely devoid of any beer-snob nonsense.
Near the entrance were several bars tucked under the trees alongside a stage featuring some excellent acoustic musicians. The only issue was the extensive network of tree roots beneath everyone's feet. How nobody ended up face planting after several hours of enthusiastic sampling remains one of the greatest unsolved mysteries in craft beer.
The food options smelled fantastic throughout the day, although we only sampled the pizzas, which were every bit as good as I remembered.
The wider site was equally impressive. There was the farm taproom serving Rivington beers, a semi-permanent tent packed with seating and taps, and a huge marquee containing well over a dozen breweries pouring their latest creations. It felt less like a beer festival and more like a beer-themed village.A village I would happily move to.
Twenty-Three Beers Later...
One of the genius aspects of the festival was the 200ml glass. Rather than committing to pints, it encourages exploration. And explore we did.
By the end of the session we'd navigated our way through twenty-three different beers between us. It started as a tasting session and gradually evolved into a carefully managed hop expedition.
There were hazy pales, huge DIPAs, pilsners, stouts, sours and everything in between.
There was even a pastry imperial stout which tasted like someone had dissolved a tiramisu into an espresso martini and then left it to brood about its life choices.
Absolutely dreadful.
Mercifully, almost everything else ranged from very good to outstanding.
The Best Part
As fantastic as the beer was, the highlight wasn't a triple dry-hopped DIPA, a barrel-aged stout or some exclusive festival release.
It was my wife.
She embraced the whole thing from start to finish.
We chatted to lovely people, soaked up the atmosphere, compared notes, laughed our way through the afternoon and generally had an absolute best of times.
It never once felt like she was simply accompanying me because she knew it was one of my passions.
I genuinely think she had as much fun as I did.
Possibly more.
We eventually made the walk back to the hotel in one piece and, rather strangely, a 45-minute walk feels considerably shorter after twenty-three beers.
The Perfect Ending
The following morning we grabbed breakfast and coffee from Costa and pointed ourselves back towards Yorkshire, taking the scenic route over the Pennines. The weather was kind, the roads were quiet and it proved the perfect ending to a brilliant weekend.
As for next year's Rivington Farm Trip?
Well, let's just say the tickets are as good as booked.
My wife may not realise it yet, but she's been successfully promoted from festival guest to official beer adventure partner.
I'd raise a glass to that.
But judging by this year's effort, she probably already has.
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