French Leave (pt. 3)

I have to be honest, I thought that a holiday in this part of France was going to be a beer desert. Not that I came on a family holiday with friends (and their child) with any intention of it being a beer holiday - that seems a bit like always being at work, and not giving time to friends and family.

But fortunately, I have a beer-curious guy with me (and that's not a euphemism), so today in Bergerac, as we spied a likely looking bar as we headed for a boat trip. After a picnic lunch on the river Dordogne, we headed back for a quick beer at Au Plus-Que-Parfait, and were delighted to see that they had La Chouffe (8%abv) on draught. I've only ever had it in the bottle, but on draught, it's a revelation - a strong blonde beer with a wonderfully spicy yeast bite to it. There are another half-dozen taps, and a beer list of maybe 50 bottles - nothing terribly unusual, but enough Belgian staples to show a serious intent.

So, Bergerac; although there isn't an indigenous beer culture (in the sense of an active brewing scene), there are enough beers this one cafe to keep the beer curious interested and satisfied for a few days.

French Leave (pt 2)

Happily marooned in rural south-west France, there is little to to apart from eat, drink and sleep, although the heat is making it difficult for our son to sleep, so we don't either. This goat-branded curiosity turned up on the shelves of the local supermarket, brewed by the Basque Aker Beltz brewery. It has a map of the Basque state on the back, weirdly overlapping Spain and France, with an outline that is totally unfamiliar.

From the name, you might expect the billy goat to be playing a flute, given the similarity of the name of the beer to famed flautist Acker Bilk. The goat is also the symbol of a German bock beer. On the palate, the 5.5%abv is well-hidden, and the beer, rather than being a bock is actually a surprisingly light-bodied English ale. Toasty grain and caramel cross the palate, before a medicinal, phenolic hop finish. The caramel is a bit obvious, being also listed as an ingredient, and given this corner cutting, I wonder if the slightly medicinal hop note is because they've used hop oils rather than whole hops.

Better than this have been large, corked bottles of the Belgian wheat beer Blanche de Naumur (4.5%abv), spendidly fresh, with a big coriander perfume and an incredibly soft, fine carbonation, finishing short, dry and perfumey - a perfect aperitif on a hot sunny evening.

French Leave.

I don't really lead the jet-set lifestyle that these last few posts suggest, but I am actually out of the country again. It's about 35C, and I'm holidaying in the French countryside, about to put my son to bed and fire up the barbie. We have some La Goudale biere de garde to have with dinner, but we're drinking little bottles of lager in this heat.

It's too hot, but fridge-cold Kronenbourg 1664 makes it bearable. If that sounds a little downmarket, then you should have tried the stubbies that were a welcome gift in the fridge when we arrived. They make the Kronenbourg seem so savoury-bitter as to be almost salty by comparison.

The pic has nothing to do with beer. Today I had one of the most mind-bendingly good ice creams of my life. Prune, red wine and Earl Grey tea. I remember being on holiday in upstate New York, hanging out with friends and reading old issues of The New Yorker magazine. An advert for Cointreau started with the phrase 'Those clever French'. My friend Ben laughed and commented on how rarely one hears that phrase these days. But in the case of prune, Bergerac and Earl Grey ice cream, the phrase is entirely justified.

Ice Cold in Sevilla

When the heat is on, there's nothing better than a small glass of really cold beer. They have that figured out in southern Spain - the caña, or diminutive cañita (canya or canyita, should you wish to try it out and are unfamiliar with the tilde) is the standard measure of beer, equating to anything from just under a half pint to just under third of a pint.

The idea of serving cold beer in small measures is a smart one. In the UK, by the time you get to the bottom of a pint, the beer will have reached room temperature - not so much of a problem for darker beers, but not what you want if you're drinking a lager. You could just drink faster, I suppose, but that's a particularly English solution to a European problem. Just order the beers in smaller glasses, more frequently.

One of the innovations in the five years since I've been to Spain last has been the introduction of Cruzcampo Glacial, a super-chilled dispense of the Seville-brewed classic. In my memory, Cruzcampo was my holiday beer par excellence - cold, snappy, crisp, and perfect to wash down plates of jamon or gambas. In actuality, Cruzcampo is an ordinary mass-produced lager, tasting slightly oxidised and having a faintly sweet yellow apple note, neither of which are appealing or refreshing. But give it the Glacial treatment and what you are left with is just a sensation rather than a flavour, a cool, snappy, crisp crackle of biscuity malt and a faint impression of hops, and all of the sweetness and flavour flattened by serving it just above freezing. Perfect for purpose - to slake a thirst and cool you down.

All the while I was drinking tiny frozen beers, I kept thinking about how I would never do this at home, and how although I was having the best holiday ever, it would be quite nice to get back to cold, damp Leeds and tuck into the bottle of Moor Brewing's Old Freddie Walker that I have waiting in the cellar. I eagerly checked the weather at home - cold and damp, perfect for sitting down indoors and getting acquainted with Freddie. But I get home, and summer has sort of sprung - hell, I'm wearing a short-sleeved linen shirt and sandals as I write this.

The early summer season of crisply hopped, grapfruity, zesty, sherbety, golden session ales is upon us. Bring me cool pints of zing, and leave the ice cold cañas to the caballeros of Andalucia. The English summer has begun!