FyneFest 2014

This was about the best photo I took all weekend…

Yesterday was pretty much a write-off; that’s what FyneFest does to you. Following a long car-ride home – the entirety of which was spent with the window open, the wash of fresh air helping to keep the contents of my stomach where they should be – I admitted defeat and went to bed at 4pm, curled up, foetal-like, under the He-Man duvet. The tent pegged up outside, airing on the line, the greasy, grass-covered FyneFest pint glass sitting on the kitchen counter, uncleaned. When I woke up, it was all I could do to shovel down some bolognaise and watch some angry Hondurans chisel their way through a French midfield, before admitting defeat for a second time and calling it a night.

24hrs earlier, it was a completely different story – sitting outside in the Argyll sunshine, a stiff breeze and Smidge-that-Midge spray keeping the toothless bastards at bay, Fyne Ales’ annual beer festival was in fantastic fettle. Having not been last year, the difference from the 2012 festival was really evident – a much larger tent, a stupendous beer list, and (on Saturday at least) pretty much zero rain. When everything comes together – and the team at Fyne Ales really work hard to make sure that it does – it’s just a fabulous place to be, drinking some of the best beers you could hope to find in the UK.

The wider beer list was like the much-repeated stereotype of a who’s who of ‘craft’ brewing – Magic Rock (11 beers), Thornbridge (12), Buxton, Camden, Ilkley, Siren. Many others. It was at a previous FyneFest I took a (fairly safe) punt on a new Thornbridge beer, and discovered Evenlode, which became one of my beers of the year, for 2011. This time, the sight of a raised chalkboard proclaiming Sierra Nevada Ruthless Rye had me sprinting to the bar; alas, it was off, and the long pole with the nail on the end was then deployed to take down the misleading board. This happened a few times – the beers were being cut through so quickly, second and third choices were always needed, just in case.

From chatting to people – and I seem to remember talking to an awful lot (I hope I made at least some sense, if it was to you), the only other niggle this year was the Walker’s Bar, a hefty hike away, running low on beer and with an hour queue for burgers. It’s unfortunate, but this is the space in which FyneFest now finds itself – it has become hugely, massively successful, a sell-out this year, and the sheer volume of drinkers means the Fyne team run along that knife edge, pretty much constantly. It works, though – I tell you, anywhere I can sit in the sun drinking Jarl and watching frolicking spaniels gets my vote, any time.

One of the early highlights, in that regard, was the pair of Border Terriers treating the outdoor crowd to a display of enthusiastic/crazed balloon chasing; a game which ended with the predictable ‘pop’ and a loud cheer. Another reason FyneFest has become so well received is that it is so inclusive – kids of all ages, family camping areas, dogs everywhere, ciders, cocktails, numerous food options, even a massage tent. Plus there are always tours of the gleaming new brewery on offer (a mild note of shame, having fully intended to look around, we never moved more than a hundred yards from the beer tent; unless you count listening to the England game on a car radio).

Eight pints later, it was apparently time to hit the canvas. I had begun the day, following the traditional opener of Jarl – fully intending to sample as many new beers from different producers as I could (this being one of the very best things about beer festivals, after all). As it was, aside from a pint of Thornbridge Wild Swan (Sequoia had departed) and the excellent Cromarty Flemish Session Ale, I ended up sticking to the homer beers. Maverick, Jarl (again), Hurricane Jack, the new Start Point tropical IPA (given free as it ran out as my glass was topping out – “Here, have these on us”), and the best beer Fyne Ales produce – Vital Spark (there, I said it).

Following all this, just the thought of beer on Sunday was beyond me. A solitary sip of what Buxton’s Colin Stronge was drinking – I assume it to be Axe Edge; it usually is – almost sent me over the edge. Unfortunately, the rain pelted down throughout the morning, meaning packing up and slowly trekking back to the car was pretty miserable. Still, it’s not like I had anyone else to blame – other than myself and Fyne Ales, for putting on another fantastic festival. Over the course of the weekend, I think I spoke to at least half a dozen brewers from other breweries; the numbers of other producers who make the long trip to Argyll is surely the best yardstick of how Fyne Ales are seen within the industry, the measure of respect they have. It’s a respect I share, too (particularly once I’d had twelve hours sleep on the Sunday night…)