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12-11-2015, 09:25
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When I was at nursery and just starting school, my parents ran a pub in Exeter and many of my earliest memories are from this time.Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the day I ‘helped’ my taciturn Lancastrian Grandpa with the stock-take.
I don’t remember it all that clearly — I was four — but there are few almost still images and short fragments of playback, cut together in a montage.
The weather was grey but must have been warm because I’m sure I was wearing shorts. I’m also sure I was sat on an upturned crate,*in the yard by the cellar door.
The cellar itself was whitewashed, cold and damp, with spores on*its breath.
Gramps*was wearing his black Harrington jacket with the red tartan lining, grumbling as he shifted bottles around with yellow-stained, tough old*hands. He was probably smoking — he was always smoking — but I can’t remember for sure.
There was a blue plastic crate full of bottled beer with blue labels — light ale, I suppose — right next to me for a long time. The caps were bright blue and smooth, pretty and button-like, and I remember coveting them.
Then a crate full of root beer in glass bottles landed in front of me. I asked what it was — is it like cola? He told me. I pestered him to let me try it. Eventually, he grumpily popped open a bottle and then went into the bar, still muttering, to pay for it.
But I hated it so much it made me cry. (Which is probably why I remember this moment at all.)
A Vivid Memory (http://boakandbailey.com/2015/11/a-vivid-memory/) from Boak & Bailey's Beer Blog - Over-thinking beer, pubs and the meaning of craft since 2007 (http://boakandbailey.com)

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