Left Hand Widdershins Oak Aged Barleywine Ale 10.7% ABV
Barley Wine Ale
Left Hand Brewing Co.
This beer has a much lighter hue than the other Barley wines I’ve reviewed. Its color is closer to amber than dark black. The front of the beer has the rich character that I’ve come to expect with this style which flows into a body with some spice notes to it. The finish is clean and quite light. I would rank this as the 3rd best of the four Barley Wines I’ve now reviewed, although it is much closer to 2nd than it is to last. Last is distinctly reserved for the Old Guardian. This is a beer meant for a cold dark winter’s eve, with notes of orange and apricot to remind one of the awaiting spring.
I sit at my desk. My fingers rest atop the keyboard of my laptop, patiently waiting to carry out the orders of my mind. They are merely the workers. They care not what dreck or genius flows forth via their labors. They merely obey the signals sent down my nerve endings that tell them to move and tap the appropriate keys.
Did you know that it takes longer for a message to be sent from a tall person’s brain to their toes than it does for a short person? I mean it makes sense if you think about it. The message has a shorter distance to travel for those whose toes are closer to their head than basketball player sized human beings, (deference paid to the Muggsy Bogueses and Nate Robinsons of the basketball world). Though the difference is in a time frame that is imperceptible to the unaided human mind, it is there. I guess it still means if you are a short child you have a split second head start after you kick a tall adult in the shin. Now where was I?
Right, spewing dreck, for genius is far too much to ask for, and my fingers know better. But my mind, my idealistic mind, longs to give the perfect signals that will direct my fingers to type out the most beautiful of prose…not just prose, a new form of prose poetry…no not just that, but a string of words so profound as to create a new category of written word, or literature that astounds and brings awe to any who lay eyes (or fingertips for those who use Braille) upon it. But alas, this is merely the ramblings of an intoxicated and soon to be inebriated individual. For I have decided that the distinction between those two words lies in how much liquid is left in the bottle.
I take another gulp and refill my glass, I have yet to fall fully into inebriation, as I still have a third of the bottle left to go. I worry about where this typing has led, for who wants to read the ramblings of a soon to be inebriated man?
Oh how I enjoy the oak aged brews; these fine beers that are left to soak in barrels, sucking in the flavor and nuances of the containers that hold them, for a time. How do we take on the dimensions and characters of the bodies that hold us? We are youthful at one moment and then elderly, in the blink of an eye. Aging, the most ambivalent of life’s mysteries; for much comes with age and much also is lost with it.
Here now I end my alcohol induced existential musings as there is no more Widdershins left to imbibe.