No Taste Like Home

I'm an old man. I like old man's pubs.
The Holly Bush in Hampstead is one such place.
Built in the 17th century and tucked away on the
outskirts of the King’s old hunting grounds,
she offers warm respite from windswept Dickensian evenings.
Her wood panelling all dusky and varnished.
Her ceilings of decorative pressed tin.
I seek succor in her crannies and in her nooks.
And in the taste of my Homeland
which she gracefully carries on tap.
Nut brown in colour, and still brewed
in a steam-powered pagoda-style tower
on the North side of the Cotswold Hills,
Old Hooky is a sacred beer, made from the
full-bodied and fermented blood of
Arcady’s Christ-like Lord Of The Hops.
To drink of it is to summon up an ancient
topography of gently rolling pastures and
rich red soil toiled upon since time immemorial.
I give my thanks to the yeast and to the mash tuns.
To the thatch and the checkered daffodil and the men of the Morris.
I raise my elbow and drink a flowing bowl
to arch-maltster John Harris and
the 9 billow maidens
in their comely white smocks.
For tonight we’ll merry-merry be.
For tonight we’ll merry-merry be.
For tonight we’ll merry-merry be.
Tomorrow, we’ll be sober.

Old Hooky voted "Best Beer In The World"

The Hook Norton Brewery

The Holly Bush in Olde Hampstead

CAMRA: The Campaign For Real Ale