Years ago, living in Cambridge, passing the Free Press on a
sunny Saturday morning, my mate and I, noting the open door, 10.30am, popped
in, with the promise of an early pint, just one, or maybe two, but as all good
pub plans used to go in those long ago days, it all unravelled and we emerged,
eyes blinking at the strength of the afternoon sun, at 3pm. Despite this, from
then on, there emerged a love of early doors, not an obsession, but an
occasional treat on a par with greeting the sunrise in June and walking through
empty streets and spotting the closed curtains, the world in its temporary
grave. Breakfast beer this is not, though I have come face to face with this
particular phenonamena, the first time at the Six Bells brewpub in Bishops’
Castle, a visit with 11 other beer writers at 9am, a talk on mashing and
fermentation expected, but heads nodding in unison as the brewer/owner Nev
bellowed, ‘who’s for a breakfast beer?’.
And so, this morning, another early doors treat, en route to
somewhere, and time to spare in between trains. My palate is fresh, the sun is
shining and there’s an earthy, carpet-like sourness in the air of the pub into
which I walk. Not unpleasant. There’s also a strain of cleaning fluid wafting
through the air; a familiar aroma, of which I have a few years experience.
Outside on the concourse, where the smokers often huddle conspiratorially in
groups, émigrés from both the pub and the offices that tower over, imperious
and insect-like in their indifference, there’s a brisk breeze and several tall
banners wave and shiver in a way familiar to fans of Kurosawa’s Ran (I’m
thinking the battle scenes).
‘I’m just having a second Stella, while Nan’s having a tea,’
giggles a woman draped in luridly coloured scarves, while her bare wrists shine
with several bracelets. There’s a chap at the bar — a mop of hair, Ringo circa
63 just out of bed perhaps, hipster jeans, half-mast at the ankle, canvas shoes
that my son and his mates wear off duty. ‘A cappuccino mate, large one, extra
shot.’ The pub was quiet when I came in. It’s now beginning to fill up, voices
collection and rising upwards like bees beavering away in a bush. My glass is
nearly empty, a can of Sixpoint’s Bengali Tiger providing an elemental and
elegant shot of hops, and the train will be ready to go in a mo. Time to leave
but not before remembering that early door on a sunny morning in Cambridge.
