The paintings and framed photos are leant up against the wall. Each bedroom is now just empty furniture with boxes stacked upon a bare bed. Most of my wardrobe is seeing a new, and probably much more exciting life, begin in a charity shop. Even the little nick-nacky bits that make your house feel like your house have been packed away. 

What was a home now just feels like an empty energy-less building. 

A decade and a half of stuff, getting boxed and ready to be moved to our new place. Memories triggered. Hard questions asked about whether it’s worth moving. Partly because what we have chosen to do, and how we want to live, but we realised that we need less not more. Less chasing the gold and more chasing rainbows. And besides, our new house is much smaller. 

Its all a bit brutal. All the hobbies that you started, and bought all the kit for, and then got hidden away in the loft. A few brilliantly envisaged gifts for your loved one, that you now realise never saw the outside of the box. A large container of out of focus travel photos and postcards from people you don’t even remember. Time flown by, so fast. 

Family belongings from your old parents house that at the time you couldn’t bear to deal with. That annoying didgeridoo from your gap year that has seen more lofts than a conversion specialist. Claire and me looking through boxes of memories. Faded for sure. Dust covered. Forgotten. And now needing to be culled. 

And having to sort out the drawer. Every man has one. All the random bits of stuff that we think one day we may need. Some old security passes from work. I probably should have returned these. Odd batteries, some foreign currency, three radiator bleed keys, obviously. And what looked like hundreds of these tiny metal circles. 

Hello I am Mike and it turns out I am a placomusophile. 

I am not entirely sure of when or how. Or even why. A few are branded by the maker, but predominantly it’s a layer of shiny generic gold and silver painted pieces. A few black ones here and there. There is one saving grace – there is a word for it, and that means I am not the only one. 

A collector of snout plates. Still no wiser? The muzzle capsule. No? The champagne plaque – the tiny metal circle that sits on top of a bottle of bubbly fizz. Sparkling drinks fitted with corks are under high pressure, so the wire and its metal cap are needed to hold them in place.

The drink itself is long gone. So these are just souvenirs. Like collecting bookmarks as a child when you went to museums or zoos. Or the spontaneous purchase of a fridge magnet when you are stuck in an airport with nothing to do and some change to spend. But at least the history of these items were relateable. A picture of a sunny beach with Fuerta Ventura emblazoned in red used to perch pride of place on the refrigerator door. And reminded me of our holiday, and the good times. 

These particular metal pieces are all nearly entirely unidentifiable, and close to impossible to relate to a party here, or a celebration moment there. There is a brief moment when some generic feel good memories just start to bubble. But then the realisation that sadly over my drinking career and many, many bottles, I have carefully curated a collection worth exactly nothing. All now destined for the recycling. 

Except one. 

I remember this one. And it’s coming with me. 

Still attached to the wire cage. Which was still attached to the cork. In turn still surrounded by the glass of the neck of the bottle. Not an illusion or magician’s trick, but a demonstration of the cemeronial technique of sabrage. Here there is no attempt to divert your attention away. Rather, all eyes are fixed on the holder. 

A few autumns ago we were in a car on the way to visit some long missed friends. We were sneaky, and would always make a plan to go and see them in late September. They have a beautiful little orchard at the bottom of their garden. You could park close by, they always had the grass mowed nice and tight, and the trees were always extremely generous. Picking was a pleasure. And the sun always seemed to shine. 

I am sure you know the feeling . It was Friday. We were already in a good mood. As we drove we were finger flicking, station surfing the car radio. We had already dropped on some anthemic pop, and rode with a well known lead guitarists eyeball popping riff. And then we happened upon one of our favourite tunes. 

Claire was in the passenger seat. Hands flat with her little finger slightly offset towards the palm, like scissors pneumatically propelled from the elbows. Amorphous shapes cut from the dashboard. The knees started to go. The head got involved. 

I was driving. The best I could offer was pistol fingers. Index and thumb outstretched at right angles. Three fingers remaining on the steering wheel to keep it safe and legal. The clutch leg wasn’t needed and had started to bounce. The sound level was up pretty high. The bass line reverberated through the car’s body, the floor, the seats. Music stirs the soul, and lifts your mood. Our heart rate rising to synchronise with the BPM’s. 

Anticipation. Just a few miles left and we knew the sparkling cider would already be chilled. Our friends had good taste. 

We would do the picking tomorrow. It was still warm, and we headed straight out back. “You will like this” they said as they held up the bottle. As always the first drink was cork and caged. Sparkling. 

To say the subsequent moments were ‘life changing’ sounds like deliberate hyperbolic extravagance. But ‘mind changing’ for sure. For this time our friends had chilled a bottle of perry. After the driving party build up, it was fair to say that I was disappointed. I didn’t think I liked perry. We had arrived buzzing and I always thought they had great insight into drink and flavour. 

They deliberately avoided Cavas and Proseccos as we all agreed they were often tasteless, and we found frustration with their back labels often boasting of subtle green apple aromas. Sparkling apple always had Flavour. With the big F. 

We had made perry a few years before. Using standard conference eating pears, fermented with a champagne yeast over the winter. It was dull and syrupy, without any acidity or tannic elements to provide structure. Sickly sweet at best, and I think we ended up blending it with some cider. It brought a bit of sweetness and that was it. I don’t know why they had chosen a perry. 

From nowhere flourished a small sword. About a foot and half long, slightly curved, with ornate handle, and golden and red tassels. The bottle held in one hand. The sword, or sabre, wielded in the other. They were pulling out all the stops. Our eyes were fixed. With the back of the blade my friend struck at the neck of the bottle, and with a crack the neck sheered off and flew off towards the raised beds. A little stream of bubbles erupted from the bottle as my mate smiled triumphantly. 

Theres normally a synchronised “woo” when you open a bottle of Sparkling. But I think I was speechless. What had I just witnessed. Simultaneously we were handed flutes. All quite memorable so far! The drink had a lot to live up to. 

And the Perry was Epic! With a very large E. 

Greggs Pit 2017 Thorn. I had never tasted anything like it. 

Huge structure, like one of those steel frames that you see in Grand Designs, over engineered and canti-levered, but perfectly balanced, as though the whole thing was sat on one small building block. A drink that was almost sculptural – stopping you in your tracks, like the first time to see the Presidents at Mount Rushmore, but carved out from these tiny little rock-hard perry pears. 

It was like tasting the stars. Tiny citrussy, sherbety explosions. All lift and life and energy. A perry supernova. 

Everything was perfect. Not just this beautiful bucolic garden-cum-orchard, chatting and laughing with our friends, the sabre demonstration, but the fizz, the acidity, the florality and the texture of the drink. 

This was real perry, made with real perry pears. Forget the car ride, that is how you get the party started. We could have driven in silence and I am not sure I would have been more buoyant. Just like music, an incredible drink can stir the soul, and boost your mood. As the others wandered inside I went off to find the cork. Somewhere amongst the chard and the kale I found it. 

It was coming with me. 

***

I love sparkling alcohol. I don’t mean a little bit of soft mellow fizz from a bottle conditioned, or the hiccupy carbonation you might find in a can. I mean Real Sparkling. Tiny, fiery, mouth tingling effervescence. Fleeting and fugacious bubbles. I love its energy and life. It was Dom Perignon who is supposed to have first said that drinking true sparkling is like tasting the stars [It’s a nice story… – Ed]. 

You are not really permitted to use the words “champagne method”, but that’s what everyone calls it. Technically it’s the “methode traditionelle” – secondary fermented in the bottle to trap the carbon dioxide at high pressure, the gas bubbles being absorbed into the liquid, resulting in a super saturation of CO2. Its this carbonation which causes the very fine tingling sensation at the top of your mouth – your pain receptors are fired, and the endorphins start to flow. 

If you are into sports you will appreciate how just the tip of pain can have a feel good feeling. When you have covered every blade of grass to score the winner from forty yards. That last few hundred metres of a run when you give everything you have got. Or one of those steep hills when the pedals slow to a stop, while the heart rate spirals higher and higher. 

I quite like a splash of chilli sauce. The mouth tingles, the lips start to burn. And I am sure many of you have endured wasabi nose before you go back for another mouthful. Or maybe you are into rollercoasters. Pain or fear just for a moment, then a euphoric feeling as the body releases its pain killing, mood boosting hormone. 

Sparkling cider, and perry obviously, makes me feel good. It’s uplifting. To misquote Lily Bollinger “I drink sparkling ciders when I’m happy and when I am sad. Otherwise I never touch it, unless I am thirsty”. Coco Chanel allegedly said “I only drink Thorn 2017 on two occasions – when I am in love, and when I am not”. There are even unconfirmed apocryphal reports that Winston Churchill was reaching for a bottle of Greggs Pit when he famously stated “in success you deserve it and in defeat you need it”. 

It’s true, the bubbles are important. But there is another element to it. Bottles of Sparkling are always shared. We are together when we drink them. Connections and memories forged as we sip them. From the sound of the cork, and the “woo” protocol, to the clinking of glasses and the “Cheers”. 

The glassware must be tall and elegant. Normally stemmed so that your hands don’t warm the glass or block the visual. The stream of translucent pale gold bubbles always on show. Diaphanous droplets escaping from the top of the glass. The best ones just slightly rounded towards the rim to help trap some of the aromas. And they tend to be very fine. My friends flutes are so thin that it makes me nervous just holding it. I feel like my ugly, knuckly, puffy hands could just crush the glass like the Hulk in a bad mood if I don’t pay full attention. And I am pretty sure that if I ever tried washing them they would be stacked on the dryer in multiple pieces. 

A few months ago moving house seemed surreal. We had just put our house on the market. It felt like one of life moments where something important has happened, but actually nothing has moved forward. On one hand there is no tangible progress, but on the other a decision has been made. A flag stuck in the ground. 

The sign board was due up the following day, the photographer scheduled on the Monday, and potentially viewings from later that week. That only gave us the weekend to make the place look presentable. No shirts or socks hanging from the top of the doors, Claires multiple trays of seedlings moved off windowsills, and our rather large collection of cider and perry had to be put away. We were tempted to leave out a few of the Sparkling Perries, because, we felt, potential buyers may spot, and would then instantly realise that this was a humble household of class and sophistication. 

It was Friday, and we had a lot to do over the weekend. So out-out was out. We had missed the previous Saturdays Radio 6 Funk and Soul show, so that was immediately lined up on playback, and we definitely needed a drink. 

Just the two of us, and we wanted a bottle to share. And we needed something to match the mood. It definitely wasn’t Sparkling – save that for offers accepted, but neither did it feel like we wanted to tackle something hefty. Supper was going to be something light. We had some veggies to use up – just in case people looked in the fridge. 

There was a bottle I had been saving for just this particular moment. 

Little Pomona’s Egremont Russet En Barrique 2020. 

Russet apples from the tree seem a little love hate. They are pretty ugly, at least compared to its contemporaneous competitors. They have this rough textured skin, and you feel like you would be chomping down on some leather. Just off brown in colour, and without the shine that attracts us to things like magpies. 

Yet, one of the orchards I visit won’t let me touch them as her mother loves to eat them. I sometimes look at the tree laden down with what looks like hundreds, and raise an eyebrow, but to be fair, by the end of November there is no sign of any. I assume the ladies mum must be one of the worlds healthiest octogenarians, given the nutrition and vitamin she is munching her way through. 

And when fermented, it’s a whole different ball game again. They produce a cider that’s very “un cider like”. Schrodinger’s Cider. A very light viscosity, just enough acid in there to make each mouthful dance, just the lightest hint of tannin, to tease the cheeks and make the tongue do a salsa roll. 

And Little Pomona have smashed it. Aged in ex white Burgundy barrels this is simultaneously the simplest yet most complicated thing we had drank for ages. As we sitted and chatted, reflected and planned, we worked our way through the bottle. The funky soulful music soundtracked our evening and encapsulated the drink. On one hand, its brilliant background music, but if you listen and hear and feel, it fills you. 

They say you get out what you put in. And it’s very true with this particular drink. It’s a delightful sipper, sit back, relax and let the 8.4% alcohol do its thing. But if you want to, it offers depth and complexity and incredible flavour. Every so often Claire would swirl her glass and pick out tropical notes, all high toned, vanillas paired with fresh wood. The next swirl sweet creamy macadamia. The next fresh cardamom. Me, I was just having a good time. 

The glassware was one of those stemmed balloon wine glass things. I tend to be a bit of a guzzler, so a smaller serving size helps slow me down, particularly at 8.4%. And it feels a little more refined. Primarily though, it was the perfect vessel to swirl and nose, and take our time over. 

Supper turned out to be a bit of a hodge podge. But what I remember most is that the whole evening felt harmonious. The music, the drink, and our new life journey all in accord. A snapshot representation of what we wanted to achieve. Life can fly by really quick, and be very pleasant. But we wanted our life a bit slower. We wanted to have the time to swirl and savour and really enjoy each moment.  

***

Tomorrow is the day. Contracts have been exchanged. And we need to be fully vacated by 12pm. There’s nothing to be done now until the moving van shows, hopefully. That also means that tonight is the night. The denouement to a pretty hefty chunk of our lives. Our last night in a place that has shielded and protected, allowed us to flourish, and harboured hundreds of memories. 

It’s nearly May. It’s hammering with rain. And we have put the fire on. For one reason we had a few chunks left, and when you have split them yourself, you don’t want to leave them behind. But I think, primarily, it’s because our new place doesn’t have one. Our dog loves the fire, so maybe it was for her too. She allows me to mess around and get it going and then as I slide the vents closed, she moves over and stretches out. She’s getting on now, so most of our winter nights are sound tracked by her gently snoring. 

With the fire going and our mood in a little reflective state, I dig through one of the boxes and pull out something that I had only got my hands on quite recently. A newish maker, based not in the cider heartlands of the South West or Hereford, but up in arable country, the medieval town of Lincoln. 

He and his beautiful family, and quasi-famous dog Indy, had come to visit us down at our orchard just a few weeks before, and, as is customary we had swapped a few bottles. We had walked the orchard, chatting and sharing planting stories, and then sat around the fire pit for a late lunch.  It was a beautifully relaxed vibe – the crackle of the fire, the lightest susurration of the leaves, the melodious and mellifluous sonnets of the birds. It was leisurely and unhurried and it was perfect. 

And as we ate we shared one of his creations. Dabinett apple from 2019 aged in an ex-wine barrel. A 750ml bottle as I love sharing. It brings us together. I only had a small glass as I still had a lot to do that afternoon, but it tasted amazing. And to be fair I have not always been Dabinett’s greatest fan. A small bit in a blend showcasing its orange, the spice, and the body, is great, but on its own I can find it medicinal, like one of those orange flavoured antiseptics, that my knees and elbows were washed in as a child. 

As they left he helped Indy up into the boot, as his son jumped into the front passenger seat.  He had to squeeze into the back, brandishing his bottles, everybody smiling. Family first. Cider second. As it should be. 

Tonight’s choice – Chapel Sider Franko

Glass in hand, sat where I have sat thousands of times before. The sofa is coming with us, but I am sure it will feel different, in a new place. The drink is still and it’s dry. Time, and the red wine barrel, have softened and mellowed this. It’s a sipper for sure, and great with cheese. Which is good as all we have is a selection of nibbles. Over the last few weeks we have emptied the fridge and played freezer roulette. The cupboards are bare, literally. 

There is no background music tonight. We are both sat quietly, a little contemplatively. Often alcohol and memories aren’t conducive but rather blurred bedfellows. But I suppose that’s because cider is often drunk in pints. Single serves. Fast and Functional. But there are ciders out there now that can move you. A range to be shared and paired with special moments in our lives. Ciders that are exciting and aspirational. Joyous and uplifting. Ciders that comfort you and challenge you. Ciders that are memorable. The full spectrum. The rainbow.