Balearis Estiu

Up, out into the garden, witness some fitness. Sweaty. Bag some lunch, some kids and head off into the heat. A beach, a rock, jump, repeat. Too many people to leave the bag unattended. I sit, slowly melting.

Another beach, even busier. Still can’t leave the bags. Hunt for a postage stamps worth of shade. Break out the Kindle.

Head for the lighthouse, the tip of the island. Selfies with the kids. Laugh at the fake insta-lifstyle lady and her cameraman bloke. €19 for three drinks and three lollies, past caring.

Into an Eroski on the way home, water, water, everywhere. Spy a bottle with an interesting label, where are its pack mates? Grab it anyway, gagging for a beer.

Drive, petrol, drive, villa. Fall in the pool, blessed relief at last. Interesting label into the freezer, it’s filtered. Shower, dinner, beer? Can’t be arsed, water.

Cluedo Suspect, after dinner games. Finally feel bothered for a beer. The pour, the unmistakable aroma of a lager. The unremarkable taste of yet another lager.

Grainy, not grassy. Lacking bite. Thirsty after all, practically gone before the cards are dealt. I win. Is this beer better than Estrella, Mahon, or any of the other industrials so far?

Does it win? Maybe I should’ve picked up more cheap Urquell in Lidl.

La Sagra Blanca de Trigo

Exploding Kittens, after dinner games. After dinner drinks. A smart looking bottle, I looked twice in the supermarket, is it craft or is it crafty?

It’s not memorable whatever it is. The glass is finished. I explode, unable to defuse. The kids in bed, more Wee Free Men. More silly Scottish voices. Wishing the beer had spoken Spanish, rather than bland.

Off to bed.

La Sagra Burro de Sancho

Dinnertime, that curry. It’s not very curry like, not enough spice. No heat. Turns out the yoghurt had sugar in it. A beer to drink with dinner?

Let’s try the BrewDog wannabe. Full on old skool BrewDog branding. No shame. Another idiot donkey on the label. What is it with donkeys?

All style, no substance. It’s not bad, it’s just bland, forgettable. Just like the curry.

Maybe it’s the wrong time of day. Maybe it’s the wrong setting. Maybe I’m looking for positives trying to be nice.

Or, just don’t use old skool BrewDog branding, without using old skool BrewDog flavour.

Tyris Original

Curry for dinner, shame there’s no curry paste. Half remembered Spice Tailor recipes, what’s in the fridge? Cauliflower, squash, lentils, is there anything else?

The hob is so slow, I could grow a beard. Come on! Halogen crap, once you have induction, everything else is rubbish.

Is there another beer? Take the next on the shelf without looking. A blonde from Valencia. Won a Bronze at this years Barcelona Beer Challenge, how?

The curry is finally ready. The beer long gone. What did it taste like? Can’t remember. Innocuous, forgettable. I hope the curry is better.

La Gardènia Carmen White IPA

In Lidl getting supplies, wondering how people manage to shop with this kind of nonsensical layout. Cheap Pilsner Urquell, a few go in the trolley. A different aisle, different beer, cerveza artesanal, one of each will do. Is it Mallorquin? Does it matter?

Another day, a market, melting in the heat. Seemingly endless. Street after street after street after street. Stalls full of tat I don’t want and won’t buy.

Finally back at the villa, a late lunch. Time for some sun, Will you come in the pool with us Dad? No, I need a bit of peace and quiet, give me an hour. Has it been an hour yet Dad? When are you coming in the pool Dad?

Slick and sweaty from an hour in the sun, time for a beer. A White IPA, but it’s been filtered, clean as a whistle. One dimensional, just like the kids demands in the pool. Throw me Dad! Jump in with me Dad?

All coriander. Citrus and yeast missing in action. No bitterness, just disappointment. Time to get out of the pool and cook dinner.

La Terca Negra

Back into the ice cream shop. La Terca Negra por favor. Outside the drums have awoken, dark, brooding, tribal. The Dimonis march off to elsewhere, breathing room.

A dark beer for white clad demons. A touch thin, for all that treacle. At home, it would be a fire and baffies. In the plaça, it’s heat and noise. It works.

Drink up, the drums are approaching. Too strong to neck without consequences. No time for slow contemplation. Sparks fly.

The children and their bangers are gone. The “adults” have taken on over. Clad like they’re off to a G8 riot, soaked in water. Dancing under the relentless cascade of golden fire. Dancing to the beat of the Demonis and the drums.

Emboldened by dark beer, come an kids. Closer, sparks flying, ears ringing. The finale, fire raining down all round the plaça. Kids, adults, all cowering in corners, brushing burning embers from clothing.

Still the drums beat.

La Terca Rubia

The main plaça, bangers going off left, right and centre. Small ones, big ones, huge ones, nerves fraying, children crying. Into the ice cream shop, they sell local craft beer.

Two bottles of the blue one with the donkey, London murky in Mallorca. One doesn’t taste right, grainy. The other is soft, beguiling, gone almost before realising it. Gin i tonica to replace the duff bottle, don’t buy me anymore craft beer.

Why is there such a variation between bottles? Bad production standards? Shoddy storage? The stifling heat, even at 23:45?

No time to ponder cerveza artesanal Mallorquí production standards. Beer gone. People everywhere, tension, expectation. Still the bangers bang. Demonis congregating, time for another.

Sullerica Blanca

A slow start to a hot day. Port de Sóller really isn’t than nice, heat radiating from all the concrete. Fleeced on the tourist tram, was it worth it for the kids? Possibly.

Cala Deià, that restaurant from The Night Manager, salty sea, scorching sun. The Cami des Ribassos back to Deià, a cafe, S’Hortet, with a garden and local craft beer.

Draft craft has just finished, Estrella? The one with the orange blossom too. Damn. Others in the fridge, not for me though, driving. Can I buy to take away?

Back at the villa, wash the kids. Eat dinner so late it’s like we’re natives; Ottolenghi is not just for home. Beer time, finally, just before we head off into town.

A white beer, local Lemons. A touch too much carbonation. Refreshing, but glad I didn’t add all the yeast. A beer to quench the afternoon heat.

Nearly time for the Correfoc fireworks and Dimonis. Definitely time for another beer, one more suited to the sultry evening.