They say it’s the most stressful thing that you can do. Moving a houseful of beer. Yes, whilst others are gamefully pulling on Jeremy Corbyn diorama hats at GBBF or side-stepping flyer-giving teenagers on the Royal Mile, the agenda in our particular part of the world has been packing up everything we own to move to another bit of it. Not hugely far, just across the city, but any upheaval puts strain on a relationship. I hope the beers I’ve been cellaring forgive me, eventually, when they are settled in at the new place.
It doesn’t half make you realise how much beer you’ve got when you have to individually pack each bottle. Particularly when you have to crawl underground to retrieve some of them. Almost ninety bottles and cans (craft!) hauled out of cupboards, boxes and our actual cellar (which I still think is really cool – cellaring beer in an actual cellar – but then that tells you quite a lot about me). So many memories. The rarities, the oddballs, the ones I’ll likely never drink. That bottle of Quaffing Gravy.
Still, onwards and (literally) upwards. At least I’ll have something to crack open when the move is done. If I can find the bottle opener. Wish us luck!