Arriving At Belhaven


Tonight I begin my tasting tour of the beers and ales of Scotland and Ireland.  I decided to embark on this private taster’s journey from my home after the wee once a week jaunt into town that brings me to the new Sahara Mart where there is stored a very large collection of imported beers….most of which are sold for around $3-5 a bottle.  Tonight’s choice (at a modest 2.99) is Belhaven: St. Andrew’s Ale-The Home of Golf  And it seems fitting to start with a beer named after the patron Saint of Scotland since I am a scot (though this St. Andrew is not in the Orthodox view) 🙂  And also, I’m starting tonight because its been a bad day.  Seemingly everything gone wrong. The worst of days and the street can looks only too tempting to kick.  The ball of one’s soul is in the rough.  What better time to have a beer?

And so I pour it ever so slowly into my crystal, the head foams up steady and sure promising in its honey-amber glow there is comfort inside. The smell is a lovely and small reminder of my long ago childhood trip to the cereal factory in Battle Creek.  Though there were few battles there to fight then the vast kettles stood like metallic lines of infantry roasting the grain for my favorite breakfast cereals. Now grain has grown up and has decided to stick around for awhile and become ale for what ails. It is battle-ready and it has a bite in the aroma as if its not going to take any bark off anyone.  It can stand up to the worst of problems and it is only too happy to tell me the secret of how to if only I will sit prone in my chair quietly sipping this remarkable potable.

And so I take my first swig. It swirls, it tingles, it bitters, it coldly coats the tongue ands says: “You’re an adult! Snap out of it!”  It is a bracing brew tinged with the sweetness of dignity. And soon I’m all right enough to read the liner notes on the bottle that push the games that people have played with my life today into the rough where they belong.  I’ve come out swinging again which must be the proper affect that this fine Ale should have on any one with a drop of Scot’s blood in them. The ball is once again on the green, the “Oldest Member” only a pleasant thought away in the bookcase, ready to put his perfect perspective on my wounded but reasonable soul.

I have arrived at Belhaven, The home of golf and St. Andrew’s Ale


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