Like the British Summer my September running's enjoying a late flurry.
Awakened after a long and boozy day with Mayfield Golfing Society, a day that started with a few hurriedly-checked e-mails, continued through the final (yes, we played it at last) of the MGS Summer Match play, nose-dived from the heady cliff-top course to the bowels of the
Harvey's Brewery for the much heralded tour and positively pancaked in the hallowed halls of the Spice Merchant, I took to the sun baked hills. It was in truth an ugly, sweaty wobble but I felt all the better for it.
Yesterdays' golf was as exciting as golf gets - admittedly if one is taking part - with never more than two shots between us until the
coup de grace on the Par 5 16th. Mano Y Mano we struck our meaty drives, brutalised golf balls resting within ten feet of one another on the fairways' edge. With a decent advantage - 2 up with 3 to play - I elected to take a 5 wood off a tricky downhill lie, playing safely to the middle of the fairway. In need of a win SP smote his shot mightily, bludgeoning his projectile high into the heavens and, alas, into the grip of a slight yet determined crosswind. The tiny white pill floated off course to plummet like a gun-shot partridge into the impossibly thick flaura crouching beneath a steadily molting treeline. Alas it failed to emerge despite the best and most ernest efforts of both players and our consorts, Captain Tom and Wee Ray. Determined to claim the hole - and therefore the match - on merit I deployed my trusty Baffy once more, this time to putt the 90 yards down the bumpy, winding slope to leave the ball ten feet from a possible birdie and a certain win. The great man emerged from the rustling deciduousness, his handshake as warm and genuine as his grin, to concede the match.
Thereafter it was very much a case of
commence au festivale, restorative pints of Best, first in the LGC clubhouse then at the John Harvey Tavern opposite the brewery (founded 1790). The tour intervened, offering a unique insight to the world of my beverage Mecca. Our guide, a lifelong practitioner of the most noble and appreciated art of brewing, was quick to stick the knife into local villains Greene King at every opportunity. Once a similarly independent producer of fine beer the owners, sniffing gold in them there hops and letting early successes go to their heads, went a bit Faustian, selling their real ale souls for a world-dominating corporate ideology before snapping up hundreds of pubs, forcing their mass-produced, now sadly inferior product through the pumps and down the gullets of a gasping, choiceless public. Famously they tried this in Lewes, where their regional flagship the Lewes Arms was selling two pints of Harvey's to every one of the house brew. Miffed at this perceived inequality and the resultant dent in their profits the Greede King Barons banned the sale of Harvey's in this popular establishment, whereupon they learned something that so many others have throughout history; Lewesians are not a people with whom to trifle, especially when it comes to ale. Thus began the infamous
Lewes Arms Controversy; Six months of boycott and ill-temper culminating in ugly national press coverage. In April 2007 Harvey's returned to the Lewes Arms, and I'm proud to be able to say
I was there.
Last night I was intrigued - and slightly concerned - to learn that the most fundamental element in producing one of the finest pints in the land is also the most fragile - the perpetuation and protection of the hallowed yeast. In 1957 the yeast at Harvey's succumbed to an evil parasite, thus ending production and sparking a wave of regional panic. A A Jenner, then Master Brewer and the man responsible for the post-war introduction of two of my personal favorites, Old Ale and Best Bitter, set off in search of a new batch. Jenner, a known and respected industry professional, contacted every known Brewer throughout the land, most of whom agreed to him visiting to sample their yeast. He packed his bags and set off on a round-Britain journey, his early efforts yielding scant reward. He came to John Smiths brewery in Tadcaster - this was pre-Courage John Smiths you understand - whereupon he finally found yeast of a suitable and agreeable constitution. Overjoyed he packaged up a sample and despatched it on the late train to Brighton terminus where it was met by the Harvey's dray and conveyed with all speed to the brewery. That very same overnight batch of yeast, nurtured and reconstituted over the decades, still sires the fermentation of the fine beers of Harvey's to this day.
Our history and science lessons concluded we entered the tasting room, where joy, as one might expect, was unconfined. Ian, our guide, a most enthusiastic and knowledgeable fellow, introduced us the various offerings from the Harvey's stable. To my shame I've only every tried three; Best Bitter, Old Ale (winter brew only - starts next week!) and Armada. It turns out there's a wide range; those three cask 'regulars' are joined by the lighter, less intoxicating Hadlow Pale Ale. Then there's the seasonal offerings; Kiss, Olympia, Porter, Knots of May, Copperwheat, Tom Paine, Southdown Harvest, Bonfire Boy, and the mighty, knee-wobbling Christmas Ale.
From there our now (very) merry band jigged along to the Gardeners' Arms, a wonderfully small yet handsomely stocked hostelry along the cobbled high street. More beer, including Lytham Royal (a fine guest ale) then on to the Spice Merchant for rafts of excellent Indian fare, a little table wine and the gentle, ribbing banter of softly inebriated golfers.
Much of last night wobbled uncomfortably around my middle as I plodded across the downs. The sun beat down with particular relish to hasten the expulsion of excess fluids from brow and belly. I felt rather like an old-fashioned prop forward finding himself with ball in hand and space in which to run. Once off the mark he moves slowly, deliberately, gathering speed until even the most committed tackle would surely fail to stop him. This was me on the homeward leg, thundering downhill, a grubby, sweaty, unstoppable force hurtling inexorably towards the trembling town like the climax to some apocalyptic B-movie.
50:04 for my old stomping route (I know, I wasn't going to time it ... oh well).
I'm pleased as punch though; two runs in three days, no discernable injuries and the prospect of more to come this week and next. Happy days.
As a poncy lager-drinking softie, the array of real ales on offer obviously got the better of me and I’m still trying to piece together the events of the latter part of last night. 
Seriously, I'm touched by your magnanimity, and glad you had a good evening in Lewes. Would have loved to have made the Harveys trip, but so be it. Tragically, beer and curry are off my menu at present, which will make them all the more glorious when they do reappear. I won't predict when that might be....