BrewDog Punk IPA

02:00, 30,000 feet. What beer do you have? BrewDog Punk IPA or Heineken. How much is it? In Euros? Wince.

Backtrack.

07:00, up, coffee. Out to the recycling centre. Two weeks worth of food waste. Tasty. Head back, past the supermarket, closed. Kerb the front right alloy. Hire car. Fuck.

Hit the road, Valldemossa. Tat, ice-cream. Stressing about that alloy.

Hit the road, Sa Foradada. A nice view of a hole. Stressing about that alloy.

Hit the road, Deià. S’Hortet, lunch in the sweltering heat, ice-cream. Stressing about that alloy. Not feeling great either.

Hit the road, Sóller. Tat, drinks, a sheep bell, ice-cream. Stressing about that alloy. Really not feeling that great.

Hit the road, Palma de Mallorca airport. Stressing about that alloy. Desperately trying not to puke.

Nothing wrong with the hire car…!?! Dodged a bullet. Into the terminal, too early to check-in. Stressing about not puking. Daughter puking.

Thoughts of overpriced macro lager gone. Three crisps, trying not to puke. Daughter puking. Feel better when not moving.

Plane delayed arriving, yawn. Board, ask for sick bags, yawn. Technical fault, more delays, yawn. Reboot, yawn. Offski, yawn. Feeling better, ish…

02:00, 30,000 feet. What beer do you have?

Lukewarm and gone in a flash. The holiday over.

Sullerica Fosca

Tired, the hike catching up. Too much beer in the fridge, still. The slow realisation that I can’t drink it all tonight. Maybe I can stuff a few bottles into the suitcase, maybe.

Into the fridge, out comes a porter. A-ha, it’s got flor de taronger, orange blossom. A beer from here.

Dark brown, carbonated. The main flavour, just dodging description. Bloomed chocolate springs to mind, badly stored, hard, dry, bloomed chocolate. Liquorice says my wife, pulling a face.

Nice enough, maybe a touch thin, maybe not. Disappointingly, no flor de taronger though. No discernible here.

Sullerica Bombón

The last night of the holiday, too much beer in the fridge. Still thoughts of terroir, of orange blossom and olives. Wanting more.

Into the fridge, out comes a special edition sweet stout. Nowt much terroir about that.

It’s fine, as far as sweet stouts go. Roasted, creamy, a touch, not too much, of vanilla.

I didn’t want sweet stout, I wanted more terroir, more orange blossom, more olives, more here.

Sullerica 1561

Heading up the the Barranc de Biniaraix to climb Es Cornadors. A hike through the olive terraces, through the art of nature. A hike to make the heart sing.

Head down, legs pounding. Stop, take in the view. Head down, legs pounding. Stop, take in the view. Head down, legs pounding. Stop, take in the view. Head down, legs pounding. Stop at the top, take in that view.

Wander down slowly, taking in the view. Taking in the art of nature, the dull clang, clunk, of the sheep bells. Thoughts turning to all the olive trees. Thoughts turning to beer made with the fruit of these trees. Thoughts turning to terroir, to here.

Finally, a beer from here that’s been shown some hops. Bitterness, but not just from hops. A beer from here, with green olives from here. A beer to make you feel connected to the landscape that you’ve just walked through.

A touch too much carbonation. Way too much gunk in the bottle. Full bodied, full flavoured. Especially when warmed up and the green olive flavours come.

Thoughts turn to terroir, to here. Is this a beer that only works here. Is this a beer that would work there? Only one way to find out.

Sullerica Original

Up early, coffee, out the door. Floor the hire car to Sóller, time for a hike. Up the the Barranc de Biniaraix to climb Es Cornadors. A hike to make the heart sing.

Near the top, lots of alpines. Lots of little wind swept and interesting dwarf rosemary. Scratch and sniff, rub, scratch and sniff, rub. Love the smell of the land in places like this.

Back down, the wander from Biniaraix to Sóller. Thoughts turning to all the citrus trees. Thoughts turning to all the citrus tree, passed on the train ride to Palma a few day earlier.

Thoughts turning to beer made with flor de taronger, orange blossom, from those citrus trees. Thoughts turning to all the citrus trees in the valley, to the rosemary on the mountain tops.

Sullerica Original, made with rosemary, lemon verbena and orange blossom. An ode to terroir. A beer from here, of here. Finally, a beer that speaks Mallorquin.

Back at the villa, beer poured. Down into the villa garden, wandering through the citrus trees. Drinking beer, thinking about terroir, about here. Wishing I could bring a crate home.

Suddenly maudlin. Suddenly a desire to come back in the spring and smell the orange blossom. Suddenly a desire to come back in the late Autumn and pick ripe oranges from the trees, juice them, eat them.

Suddenly angry. Why do more brewers not make beer that speaks of where they are. We’re not extinct Germans, we’re not from [insert US locality here]. Why do me not make more beer that speaks of here, not there?

Galilea Red Ale

Come on everyone, get a shuffle on. Out the door, floor the hire car. Twisty turny roads, a tail back. A fallen tree, floor the car. More twisty turny roads, the wife getting nervous.

Even twistier turnier roads, 270° degree bends. Slow cars, over taking cars, idiots. Twisty turny roads to the beach, better be worth it. Glorious scenery, too many people already.

Still they come. A constant stream through the tunnel, boats, buses cars. Flesh everywhere, white, red, brown black.

Back to the car, another beach, more twisty turny roads. Hardly any flesh, time for a swim. Jellies? Jellyfish? JELLYFISH!?! Fuck. That. Shit.

Back onto the twistier turnier roads, then just the twisty turny roads. Back to the pool, no sodding jellyfish here.

Into town, tapas for dinner. Drinks first. A cocktail bar, been here before, the cerveza artesanal Mallorquí was terrible, sour. I chance it again, consistency hasn’t been great, so you never know.

A big balloon glass, a touch yeasty, a slight haze, even with a careful pour. Not sour like last time. Not bad, but a bit thin and nondescript, with slight malty undertones in the aftertaste.

Billed as an Irish Red ale on the bottle. Why not a Mallorcan Red ale…? Why not a beer from here? I don’t want an Irish style, I want a Mallorcan style.

Estrella Damm

Wondering back from town to the villa. Let’s stop at that place in the little plaça that we always walk past. Cerveza artesanal por favor?

All gone sorry, Estrella? Bollocks. It could be worse. It’s clean, easy drinking. I can see why people like it. It could do with a few more hops though.

Can we go back now? For the tenth time. Back to the villa, more Wee Free Men, more bed. Dreams of bitterness.

Alhambra Reserva Roja

Back into the sun after lunch. Stay out too long, skin slowly crisping. Feeling like a well done rasher. Moisturise, moisturise, moisturise.

A meander into town for some postprandial beverages. Shall we try somewhere new…? Cerveza artesanal por favor. Estrella o Alhambra? Bollocks.

Three different Alhambra? Aye, whatever. Poncy bottle, frozen glass. Malty, stewed fruit, 7%. Craving bitterness.

I fancy another, but not here, shall we go…?

La Clásica de Mahou

Up, slowly. Knackered, but into the fitness gear, I’ve been slack. Coffee and water, lots of water. Out into the garden to witness some fitness.

The kids still sleeping, guess we’re not going to the beach then. One appears, looking tired. Time for some sun, before the inevitable, Will you come in the pool Dad…?

The sun is over the yardarm, the other appears. Best make some lunch, salad type things. As it’s now an official lazy day, beer is in order.

It’s hot, it’s holiday, it’s cans of macro lager. Thin, grainy, not that nice. It’s hot, it’s holiday, it does the job. Plenty of time for better beer later.

Gastronómica La Socarrada

Alarm. Shake the sleepy heads awake. Coffee. Pack the rucsac. Out the door, floor the hire car. Sóller, a fast walk to the train station. Ensaïmada for the family. Find an empty carriage.

Palma, just waking up. Wander aimlessly in the direction of the cathedral. A short queue, didn’t need my long trousers after all. A kaleidoscope of stained glass colour on the floor. Endless reportage opportunities.

Banys Arabs, sounds of a Hang floating round the courtyard. Is that it? Glad the kids were free. Back on the streets. I’m hungry! When’s lunch?

Spying a sign proclaiming lots of beer. Some interesting bottles on some shelves. All is not what it seems, industrial mixed with craft, or is it all crafty?

It’s a burger joint, they do a veggie? In we go. Hoping they’re good. Should’ve just had the chips, Pak Choi doesn’t work if you’re not using cutlery.

The beer contains rosemary and rosemary honey, hoping it’s not like Saison du Buff. The herb garden it’s not, thankfully. Subtle rosemary on the nose, like brushing a bush on the way past.

Thick, not cloying. Effervescent, bubbly. Refreshing, but not. Need some water. I’d have another.

Out onto the street again. Find the No. 3 bus stop kid’s. Miró awaits.