Moura (5.5%) - Cervexa Artesá Aloumiña, Galicia, Spain

During a festival called San Froilán when the good inhabitants of Lugo in Spain go potty for octopus in their thousands over two weeks of October, I was pleased to see a stall belonging to Aloumiña brewery which showcased the three beers in their range, and tried their bitter-style tosta directly from the cask out of a plastic cup. Relieved to get some top-fermented goodness down me, I scraped together whatever euros I had on me and put a bottle away for a rainy day, of which there's no shortage here.

Wondering if I might ever again encounter a beer in Lugo that deviated from the ordinary selection on draught, in a dark corner of a bar one cold and stormy night (we'll say for dramatic effect) I saw one lone customer with a bottle of an Aloumiña beer in his possession, the only indication of this beer's availability behind the bar. I made a curious enquiry and out came a bottle of their blonde beer Loura from the shelf of a hidden fridge, an exbeerience repeatable in many other bars in town. Having opened up a whole new world of possibilities to me I felt like I now belonged to some elite club, one of the select few equipped with the knowledge to access a diverse range of hard-to-get, small-batch craft brews. The secret code phrase was now mine: "What else have you got?" 

What I'd saved for a rainy day and was still yet to sample was the darkest in their range, Moura. In a tremendous twist of fate it wasn't raining today, but I wasn't going to let that stop me. 

The label boasts the use of quality ingredients even down to the local water (what better use for it?) and adding to the beer's local character all the blurb is in the Galician language. Proudly proclaiming itself a "top-fermented, ale-style" unfiltered, unpasteurised and bottle-conditioned "living" beer, this couldn't be more different from the dead, mass-produced beer more commonly enjoyed here.

As if that wasn't enough, Moura pours the deepest, darkest chestnut brown a beer could be, with a coffee-coloured head that dissipates slowly to leave the odd small patch of lacing.

The aroma is of a smoky, woody quality with distinct hints of roasted chestnuts (another thing Galicians are particularly fond of in the winter months) and fainter hints of licorice. After a glug your mouth is awash with a medium-bodied mouthful of roasted and caramel malts that develop into a delightful dry, toasted, nutty finish. 

It becomes clear that what we have here is a 21st century all-Galician porter, a well-established beer style that Aloumiña have picked up and made their own with bags of character that call to mind a Galician winter's day. This is a bittersweet, nutty, Mourish delight.

Appearance 4/5

Aroma 4/5

Flavour 4.5/5

Mouthfeel 4/5

Overall rating 8/10

Link to Aloumiña's Facebook page.

Link to my ramblings on their blonde beer Loura.

An Emotional, Gastronomic Exbeerience: Red Courtesy (5.5%) - Valencia, Spain

Not long has passed since I vowed to focus on small-batch brews from my new region of North West Spain but alarmed to see the expiration of one of my beers from an opposite end of the country was looming I felt duty-bound swoop in and save it from oblivion. Then again, I probably would have drunk it post-oblivion anyway.

Having established myself as an appreciator of all (well, most) things fermented with hops and malts at my new place of work, I was gifted this elegant little number by my colleagues for Christmas. The brewers of this gourmet beauty seem elusive folk, remaining something of a mystery until some light research reveals them as a distributor called Hidden Ice (hidden indeed) who sell several kinds of beverages, the only beery one among them this (although I'm told they have new brews in the pipeline which I'll be poised to seize the moment they're released). Supposedly inspired by elements of Japanese culture, the unique, corked, ceramic-like bottle is a wonder to behold and, despite not being the most gifted uncorker, I was eager to pop my way in.

My caution during the uncorking process was futile: within moments the cork vanished from sight in a puff of smoke and my lap was coated in a thick, gloopy white foam which, rest assured, had come from the bottle. 

Eventually a hazy orange liquid pushed past the froth and filled my glass, now with only a trace of head to be seen. With allspice, dried flower orange blossom and Buddha's hand (a little-known fruit that resembles a lemon-octopus hybrid) among the list of ingredients, it's no wonder you get a delightful noseful of fruity, floral and zesty aromas on your way in. 

The flavour shares the same complexity, the added botanicals imparting spicy, peppery and zesty citrus notes with all the floral character of a Japanese garden, all coming at you harmoniously in a gorgeous, full-bodied liquid, full of flavour and yet remaining elegant. 

But the fun doesn't end here. "The serving ritual takes Red Courtesy down different sensory paths" claims the website: in my case it was the sensation of a soggy pair of jeans, but this isn't exactly what the brewers have in mind. Despite my impression of this beer being highly positive as it is, to experience the beer's qualities at their best we're encouraged to engage in a distinctive serving ritual, taking it "where no beer has ever gone before" (and not just my lap). 


If you thought a bespectacled, bearded, checked-shirted man holding his beer glass up to the light prior to swirling it around and introducing his nose past the rim for some sniffing action before taking a swig was an elaborate procedure, you ain't seen nothing yet. Depending on which of this brew's charming characteristics you fancy enhancing, you can opt for the spicy, citric or floral "orientations", pouring a small serving of beer through a strainer containing more of the botanical ingredients provided in the kit, into a chalice. Yes, that's right; a chalice. No casual drinking experience is this, then, but a ceremonial affair intended to transport you to Takama-ga-hara or wherever, although it's hard to imagine a situation in which you could earnestly present this kit to your dinner guests and not have them falling about with laughter.

Do I detect a smattering of gimmickry at play? Absolutely, but it's a gimmick I'm happy to take seriously; after all, Red Courtesy grabs your attention as soon as you set eyes on its graceful, slender, black, corked receptacle on the shop shelf, and that's why you'd pick it up in the first place. Fortunately the appeal extends far beyond this as the brew lurking inside is of quality and delicious. So roll with it, remove the muddiness from your mind, stop seeing the forest and start to see the trees... or something.

Appearance 5/5
Aroma 4/5
Mouthfeel 4/5
Flavour 5/5
Overall Rating: 9/10

The Ibeerian Peninsula: Estrella Galicia

Happy New Beer! \~/

A new year has dawned (it's fair to say I'm a bit late on that one) and it's time for me to dust the cobwebs off my keyboard and continue my valiant efforts to sample as many hopped, yeast-fermented malt beverages as I can for the benefit of humankind.

Previously conducting my precious research from a little corner of south east England, I've now upped sticks to a mystical territory known as Galicia in north west Spain. Such a move would have always lead to numerous changes to my lifestyle, but the one I was most concerned about, of course, was the selection and availability of beer. 

Since I first stepped foot on Galicia's astoundingly fertile green and pleasant land, it was clear that my drinking habits would have to adapt substantially to the local drinking culture. For a start, beer to a Galician normally means one thing: Estrella Galicia by Hijos de Rivera brewery, a 110-year-old family-owned brewery which squirts out 100 million barrels a year and has all but monopolised beer consumption in this area. There isn't a bar, cafe or restaurant in this part of Spain that doesn't serve it (bar the odd trend-bucker), and if you're after an alternative then more often than not your choice will consist of another offering by the same brewery. 

So for a start, my days of entering a pub and standing at the bar, quietly and agonisingly perusing the labels on the beer fonts before deciding which local or guest ale I should order were decidedly over. "Una caña" (referring to the measure of a small draught) is all I had to ask for now, and soon after a 250ml glass (give or take) of a sparkling, golden, foamy Estrella Galicia would be plonked down in front of me by default most of the time. 

Indeed, when you order a beer in Spain there's no need to even mention beer: ask for a cerveza (or a cervexa in Galicia's local lingo) and you'll be asked how much of it you want, not which kind you want. If a caña doesn't do it for you then a media will get you 330ml, a sorry amount by UK standards but, believe it or not, as much as most Spaniards care to go for at a time. In fact, if a different measure is to be had then it's usually even less than a caña, a 200ml quinto. My British sensibilities were highly affected by these unthinkable measures at first: who orders less than a pint, and who orders even less than less than a pint? It soon occurred to me, though, that a caña fits the Spanish pace of life perfectly, especially when the locals happily sip away from lunchtime and bars don't start to close until 3am (sometimes with you still in them).

What of Estrella Galicia, then? It's a lager (no surprises there) and so shares the same characteristics that all lagers aim for, best described in terms of sensation rather than flavour: clean and refreshing, even if the climate in this corner of Green Spain doesn't always call for it.

A caña with a tapa (free bar snack) in Lugo, Galicia

Prejudices against mass-produced lager aside, after five months of this as my go-to beverage (if you can't beat them, join them) I could almost say I've found it a useful exercise - shock horror - in fine-tuning the taste buds in a desperate attempt to pick up on whatever vague hints of flavour I can, and if the monotony of constant lager consumption hasn't caused me to fall victim to delusional taste hallucinations, I'd go as far as to say a distinctive malty nuttiness is present. It is, I swear it is.

Encouragingly, Hijos de Rivera have a few more ambitious offerings under their 1906 label for those who fancy dipping their toes in something with a bit more character.

1906 Reserva Especial (6.5%) is a full-bodied strong lager with a primarily bitter flavour from the Nugget hops, a slight pepperiness and a hint of toasted malts.

1906 Red Vintage (8%) is malty with a bitterness that seeks to counteract a slight spirity alcoholic flavour coming from the high ABV. A gentle burn is present but it remains drinkable on the whole. 


1906 Black Coupage (7.2%) is the black sheep of the family which is intended to be served at the higher temperature of 6-8 degrees to bring out the flavours of the four malts and two hops. With roasted coffee, chocolate and licorice flavours you'd expect from a porter but almost all the crispness of a lager, Black pushes the boat out even as a bottom-fermented beer, and although super dark lagers have always seemed a bit of a contradiction to me I must give this one an A for effort. Not that it needs it from me, because all of the above beers have already bagged themselves tons of awards (although most of them have gone to the other three).

Albeit Hijos de Rivera's bevvies are the most popular beers in Galicia, I've been relieved and excited to discover a significant minority of local and regional small-batch offerings along the way that are gradually making their presence felt here. These will be my focus from now on, but for now by way of a preview I leave you with my ramblings on a Galician pale ale called Loura by Aloumiña brewery in Lugo. Salud! \~/