Experiencing Theakston's Old Peculier for the first time, and the steps that got me there.
Sometimes when you taste a beer for the first time, a good beer, it can take you somewhere else. Theakston's Old Peculier took me somewhere else.
Inspired by Katie Mather's wonderful piece on the ale, I made sure that this beer was included in my make-shift 2024 Advent Calendar that focused on staple British beers that I had not tasted before. I’m so bloody glad that I did.
Prior to reading the article I had always been slightly intimidated by Old Peculier. To me, it had seemed like a beer that was reserved for CAMRA real ale fanatics and I just wasn't one of those. I spent my time at university looking for citrus-forward, hoppy juice bombs that seemed to dominate most craft beer bars. Old Peculier would never have been seen on tap at the places I was going to drink. Compared to beers you find on the shelves today, all screaming at you to be selected with bright vibrant colours and patterns, Old Peculier’s design is quite un-pronounced, so even in supermarkets it never jumped out at me. Because of these reasons, it was always just one of those beers that I was aware of, had seen on the shelf, and had isolated as a beer that I would just never cross paths with.
However, as it would turn out, I quite liked the maltier and bitter-er beers compared to IPAs loaded with Citra, Simcoe and Galaxy hops, and for this I blame my local. It’s easy when living half a minute away from a Thornbridge pub, in this case, the Hallamshire House (Pints of Sheffield Battle of The Boozers ‘24 winner) to be enticed by a pint of Jaipur. At first you notice that you prefer it on cask to draught; that slightly warmer temperature, that smoother, creamier texture - then you’re hooked. You’re friends all want a pint of Brock or Green Mountain, but you’re gunning for Lord Marple’s. Then you have a pint of Landlord, and Black Sheep Best Bitter and now you can’t go back. Or at least that’s how it happened for me.
So now I’m at the tail-end of my university student tenure, I’m not able to afford the time to travel to Kelham Island to visit Shakespeare’s - so I’m drinking more cask than ever. Hoppy IPAs are becoming more of a distant afterthought for me, and it stayed this way for a while. So we’re at the present, I’m writing this piece, and you’re thinking “when does he start talking about Old Peculier?” - fear not dear reader, as the time is now.
I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve not the most adept when discussing the flavour of beers just yet, I am still learning after all. And yes, most people reading this will have already had Old Peculier before, however, I’m not going to completely completely exclude my thoughts on the beer. I thoroughly enjoyed the maltiness and actually found myself pleasantly surprised that it was fruitier than expected. I took particular pleasure in the deep red hue of the beer, and was sad to finish it so quickly. For a 5.6% beer I found it surprisingly sessionable, although I was feeling a warm buzz after finishing, maybe as I hadn’t eaten. By the last sip seeing off the pint, I felt myself feeling familiar with the beer.
It was like I’d been drinking it my whole life. At this point, I wasn’t just sat at home trying a beer for the first time - I was experiencing the history of a beer with each sip. I found myself envious that I was only able to enjoy this from a bottle, and knew that I’d have to search this out somewhere else. But I already felt like I was somewhere else, with the warm buzz of the beer feeling synonymous with the warm hearth of a pub when it’s cold out. I think there’s something really special about a beer when it can take you places. For example, I had a friend send me Smoky Bockfest by Saint Mars of the Desert over Summer as I’d really been missing Sheffield - even if the beer was a tribute to Bamberg, every bit of it felt like Sheffield to me.
Whilst I felt similar with Old Peculier, I’m not exactly sure where the place I was taken is, however, I like to hope that it’s somewhere nice and cosy, and preferably on cask.