Innishail into the pail

Having little money in Gateshead in my early 20s meant regular sessions on the local McEwans Scotch. For those who have never had one – it tastes like Tyne sewage water filtered through Sunday morning tights. Fortunately, a change in my economic fortune (I can afford more than GBP 1.12 a pint) I have not had to revisit this taste – until now.

Innishail.

The word sends shivers from my tongue to my colon, which was quivering the morning after the night before I met this terrible lady.

This 3.6% disaster from the Fyne Ales brewery in Argyll brew commemorates the island where all the Dukes of Argyll are burried. I think the brewers merely collect the rainwater from around gravestones and cask it.

Where it tries to be hoppy it is merely homebrew-esque: the watery and thin feel to it makes you think of burns and the possibility of dead sheep higher up from where you sup, and its citrus element more like a cheap zest effect-spray for cleaning than the real lemony thing.

I tried to think of one positive as I sat in the Guildford Arms in Edinburgh with this brew. The only one was that these fine ale tenders had 7 other beers to choose from.

I’ll give the Achadunan micro-brewery’s other brews a try to see if this is just a one-off disaster, but for me, the Cairndow lot messed up badly here.