‘The nuisance of the tropics is/the sheer necessity of fizz.’ Over the past few days, during which England endured sub-tropical sweltering, it was more a matter of beer. I do not wish to denigrate water, which is all very well in its place. I often drink it. But for urgent, nay life-saving, rehydration, nothing beats beer. Now that almost all beer is properly made, I just tend to order any pint that catches my eye. In recent temperatures, the eyes have been busy.
As I may have written before, there is one curiosity about beer. The Belgians, Czechs and Germans – plus other European countries – produce lager-style beers that are both satisfying and potent. In the UK, lager has often meant some of the worst beer ever made. Give it a Viking name, make all sorts of claims for its quality, rely on the most naive alcohol customers in the world, and market a weak and insipid liquid. The cat or horse which is responsible should be sent on a one-way journey to the vet.
There is also a paradox about beer. I know girls who are serious wine-drinkers. After dinner, they will happily address themselves to Armagnac accompanied by a proper-sized Havana. In Bruges, they will delight in the best local beers. In the relevant season of the year, they know how to use a rifle or a musket. They like their grouse rare, especially if they have shot it themselves. (By the way, the females in question are deliciously feminine.) One might assume that no alcohol would faze them, yet they do not enjoy British bitter. Strange. There it is. De gustibus.
Reverting to heat, I remember a few days in Toledo about this time of year, when the temperature was around 50°C, I came up with some rules. Walk at a funeral-march pace and only in the shade. No shade? Is your journey really necessary? Above all, never just pass by a bar. You are only 50 yards from the last one. No matter – you can always cope with another half-litre. In Oman at the height of summer, when the sea is like a tepid bath and the pools use coolers, they have a cunning way of dealing with the 50 degree problem. When it reaches that level, civil servants are allowed to go home. The consequence: the temperature never gets that high.
Oman is an immensely civilised place, combining history, tradition, a glorious landscape and every creature comfort associated with rehydration, subtly served. Apropos subtlety, the Omanis are also good at geopolitics. They have to be, because just across the Strait of Hormuz is their truculent neighbour Iran.
In the UK, lager has often meant some of the worse beer ever made
When Tony Blair resigned from the premiership and set up shop as an international statesman, dispensing counsel on every continent – with some success – he was given a lot of advice, much of it good. One of the best examples was related to Oman. He was told that he ought to go to Muscat and listen to the wisest man in the Middle East, Sultan Qaboos. In a troubled neighbourhood, that court still dispenses wisdom. I wonder what the Omanis make of Donald Trump.
Beer is not enough. Despite Belloc’s dictum, I do not think that fizz works well in high temperatures. White wine is needed. Apart from the usual favourites, I seem to have been quaffing a lot of Rieslings, traditionally an underrated grape in the UK. Its standing never recovered from the first world war. Germany and Alsace both produce wines ranging from the pleasurable to the magnificent. In Alsace, near Colmar and that most emotionally challenging artist, Grünewald in the Isenheim altarpiece, the Clos Windsbuhl produces wines of great power. For me, it is a discovery which I intend to revisit, irrespective of climatic conditions.
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