My First Punk

We wheeled up the high street from the car park, and into the little lodge in a nondescript town north of London—not quite Cambridge but nearly there. We stashed our bags upstairs after the proprietor/barman showed us the secret door to the lodgings.

The pub on the street felt bright and airy—a cheerful place to put back a pint—so we settled in for a bite. But first, that beer. The barman recommended an IPA from England, a relatively new upstart on the scene, just going national. He poured my my first BrewDog Punk IPA from the bottle with the bold blue label. Fresh and juicy, and bitter and complete, I thought. A lovely one to add to the family of beers I find to be reference marks in a broad landscape of IPAs and whatnot.

We went back to Surrey the next day, spending a couple of nights in a far grander style, to celebrate the full moon of August. It rose on the warm evening over the follies and shrubbery of the manor’s gardens. Wrapping myself in England, I remember, there’s so much to love here. Jolly good. [wink]

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