Up early, coffee, out the door. Floor the hire car to Sóller, time for a hike. Up the the Barranc de Biniaraix to climb Es Cornadors. A hike to make the heart sing.
Near the top, lots of alpines. Lots of little wind swept and interesting dwarf rosemary. Scratch and sniff, rub, scratch and sniff, rub. Love the smell of the land in places like this.
Back down, the wander from Biniaraix to Sóller. Thoughts turning to all the citrus trees. Thoughts turning to all the citrus tree, passed on the train ride to Palma a few day earlier.
Thoughts turning to beer made with flor de taronger, orange blossom, from those citrus trees. Thoughts turning to all the citrus trees in the valley, to the rosemary on the mountain tops.
Sullerica Original, made with rosemary, lemon verbena and orange blossom. An ode to terroir. A beer from here, of here. Finally, a beer that speaks Mallorquin.
Back at the villa, beer poured. Down into the villa garden, wandering through the citrus trees. Drinking beer, thinking about terroir, about here. Wishing I could bring a crate home.
Suddenly maudlin. Suddenly a desire to come back in the spring and smell the orange blossom. Suddenly a desire to come back in the late Autumn and pick ripe oranges from the trees, juice them, eat them.
Suddenly angry. Why do more brewers not make beer that speaks of where they are. We’re not extinct Germans, we’re not from [insert US locality here]. Why do me not make more beer that speaks of here, not there?