Category: Food and drink

The Beer Quarry

Of Limestone, Quarrymen and Apple Laxative

Today’s news is all thoroughly depressing. The BBC is spouting on about the war in the Ukraine. There’s ongoing chaos on Britain’s rail network. Global warming won’t bloody go away, and -more importantly- why the fuck is Gareth Southgate still picking the human bollard Harry Maguire for England’s centre back? Good God, the misery never ends. To cap it all I was locked in a hotel in Frankfurt recently for a series of dull business meetings, sustained by a diet of luke-warm frisbee-sized schnitzel and soggy potatoes. Yum.

Small wonder then if my mind drifts back to a time when the world was gentler and kinder, and life moved more slowly, unspoiled by the daily horrors of the internet. Back to a time of golden wheat fields framed by hawthorn hedgerows, of windy cliff tops with endless azure ocean views, country villages and welcoming pubs. Yes, I’m talking last July when I spent 2 weeks hiking through the glorious English countryside with not a care in the world other than where the next Cornish pastie was coming from, and could I really smell that bad after 7 hours of walking? (A. Yes.)

West Bay. I want to go back.
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Gin & Geologists Don’t Mix Well.

Most earth scientists are deeply passionate about their science, treating it as a vocation -a true calling- and not just any old degree. And they tend to feel the same way about beer, applying just as much discipline and passion to the task of finding a well-pulled pint as they do to ferreting around for a nice trilobite specimen in the local quarry. I’m not sure how it is in other countries, but in Merrie Olde England all geology students possess a mental map of the country based on 2 priorities: rocks and pubs. We know which pubs to visit in any town that’s close to an important geological location, and no college field trip is complete without at least one solid session in a well-known local watering hole.

Geologists drinking beer (good) not gin (bad)

In my formative high-school years, pre-geology, when we wanted to get really trashed we tended to eschew beer in favour of cheap gin or vodka. And if you’ve ever had a proper gin drunk, you’ll know that’s a really stupid teenage thing to do, inevitably ending with a couple of hours crawling-on-the-bathroom-floor-begging-for-death and then a cataclysmic hangover the next day. I vaguely remember a teenage episode involving me, my friends, and a bottle of gin, followed by a long sojourn down the side of the house, where I lay on the cold path head down in a drain, talking to myself until my parents carried me in doors.

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A Cornish BroMoon

Four sweaty men and a few pints of cider.

Two years ago, in a moment of remarkable prescience for yours truly, I had an idea. Good ideas don’t come often to me so I had to act fast. Figuring (correctly) that COVID was going to last a while, I decided I needed something to look forward to other than a) pandemic weight gain and b) the weekly Okanagan doorstep wine delivery which was becoming a little too regular and comfortable. A walking trip would be ideal I thought, but when, where and who with?

Cornwall gives England the finger.

I contacted three good friends, all geologists like me, over WhatsApp.

Chaps, I said. We need to something to look forward to other than a) our pandemic weight gain b) and the weekly doorstep wine delivery.

Agreed, they said in a WhatsApp-in-unison sort of way.

So, says I, why don’t we book a walking trip in the UK for the summer of 2022? How about a week or two hiking along the Cornwall / Devon coast? If we book now we can pick the optimum window for a good old-fashioned sunburn, like mid-July to early August.

Oh yes. We’re in if you book it! they replied somewhat cryptically.

Righty ho. I replied. Will do.

We’re leaving (hopefully) on an Air Canada jet plane
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Stock Picking Update.

A real haiku. Honest.

The Final Results For 2019.

First: The Rules

It’s time for the year-end results of the Hys and Lows resource stock picking club, where world’s greatest mining minds come together to show how little we actually know about our business. This is an edited version of my end-of-year note to the club members. Sadly, I have to redact names to protect the innocent and throw the paparazzi off our scent. The unedited version is WAY more abusive and fun.

As you may know, we meet in late January to drink wine, eat steak, talk about the industry, and when we’re good and drunk we each pick a mining stock. That’s about it really, other than taking a guess on the 12 month performance of the overall portfolio.

And off we go…
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Hormonal kebabs

Tehran, dateline mid-1990s. I was ensconced in the not-totally-fabulous Esteghlal International Hotel, biding my time, waiting for a drill rig to be released from customs clearance which was taking weeks. Fact is, there wasn’t a great deal to do in Tehran if you don’t speak the language, and you’re not in to strolling around the polluted streets or drinking tea in one of the many tea houses. I’d been to the carpet bazaar a few times and bought some antique rugs. I’d seen the crown jewels (they make the British crown jewels look like baubles). I’d visited the Shah’s palaces and the incredible carpet museum. The only thing left was to get to know the amazing food and try to get drunk, which is possible in Tehran with the right contacts.

The Hotel Esteghlal. Not so great after 6 weeks.
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In Praise of Eggplant

Just kidding.

If you ask me, eggplant has no point. Nada. Zip. Far as I’m concerned, it could vanish from greenhouses and shops around the world and bugger off to the great compost heap in the sky. I wouldn’t miss it. Any vegetable that’s become the unofficial Emoji for a penis really needs to take a long hard look at itself in the mirror.

I’m officially a dick.
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Jam is Dangerous

I make jam. A few years back I used to make a lot of it. As a novice jam maker, I did what any naive beginner does: I attacked the world of summer fruit with gusto. Raspberries. Strawberries. Peaches. Anything I could get my hands on was boiled up with sugar and stuck in jars. I even made fancy labels. My jam cupboard is still full of dark, sticky mysteries from that period of my life.

Leave us alone.

What nobody tells you about jamming is the sheer danger involved. It’s lethal. I embark upon each batch with trepidation.

To get a jam to set, particularly the jelly-based ones like marmalade, you heat the fruit juice and sugar up to a rolling boil. Then you keep boiling it to reduce the liquid down until the setting point is reached; when a drop of jam placed on a cold ceramic saucer quickly sets and turns to jelly.

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