Alba the hairy one
There we were, recovering from a pint of delicious Moody Blues cider (see previous blog entry). Strong it was, too. The hallowed ground of The Devonshire Cat was no longer quiet and still, like a millpond. It was gradually filling up with waves of devotees, like living sacrifices before the altar of ale. Or we could’ve just been hallucinating from the cider.
What next? We’d been to the West Country, so how about something from north of the border? We referred to the sacred text before us, and I read out the Scottish section of the liturgy. Alba Scots Pine Ale leapt from the page like a highland deer. Alba, of course, is the ancient name of Scotland. But pine? That’s what toilet seats are made of. Well, this beer was made of it, too. Not of a toilet seat, obviously, but brewed to a traditional recipe by kilt-clad Runrig fans, using the sprigs of spruce and pine collected in the spring.
This drink didn’t come from a cask or a barrel. It was from a bottle. My slight disappointment was pushed to one side as the barman carefully poured it into two thistle-shaped glasses. ‘That’s a nice touch,’ I thought to myself.
Nice, fresh highland smell to this one. Don’t worry, I didn’t sniff out any cow dung. But on drinking, it did have a rather bullish kick. If the Moody Blues cider was like a wine, this was a beer on its way to becoming a light whisky.
It’s probably unfair to compare the silken thighs of Moody Blues with the coarse and hairy leg of Scots Pine Ale, but I definitely didn’t enjoy this one as much. It was a little brash and brazen, like a quick snog behind the rusty bikesheds after school. But still nice. However, I’d moved from kissing a mystical goddess from Celtic mythology to embracing a middle-aged flight attendant on a bumpy flight from Edinburgh.
Alba is for whisky lovers who want a gentle warm-up before the real liquid fire.
