Irish Brewing People of the Past - #1 John Smithwick

‘This is the story of an Irish industry which started 243 years ago when a twenty-year-old youth left his Tipperary home, married a Kilkenny girl, settled in Kilkenny city and started a business which is now a household word all over Ireland.’

Here in Ireland, the disconnect between the beers we drink and their origins and true history means that we are far removed from the personalities of those who founded or drove the expansion of our brewing industry in the past. We know very little about those brewery owners whose legacy has been reduced to a brand held now and brewed by larger conglomerates - and sometimes smaller entities - who may or may not care about the actual heritage of the beers that they curate. Those are the ‘lucky’ ones, as at least their names are still associated with Irish brewing, albeit with a history written sometimes by marketing people more so than researchers or historians. Add to this the unmentioned owners of the brands and breweries that are no longer known or spoken about and we have a huge number of unrecorded names and personalities who are now practically lost to the beer drinking public. Names such as Watkins, Perry, Stoer, Pim, Keily, Strangman, D’Arcy and a host of others might have a vague resonance with some people, but very little is recorded about the characters themselves, or at least not in any biographical way.

Who are these often misremembered and unknown people who gave their names to breweries and beers over the last few hundred years? Some of course have been well recorded, names such as the Guinness, both Beamish and Crawford, and Murphy have all been written about in depth in printed publications and online, but others are much more enigmatic or unrecorded.

In this new occasional series, I want to explore some of the less or unknown characters of Irish brewing and reveal a little more about their history, lives and connections to others in the brewing trade. This has been made much more possible in recent years given the online presence of genealogy sites, hard to source old books and publications, and old newspapers - and without those resources this series would be almost impossible for an armchair researcher and reporter. I hope to connect the reader with these personalities and give a little family history as well as exploring how they came to own breweries - or work them. This will still be a tricky enough task so unfortunately, we will still be in the realm of ‘perhapses’, ‘maybes’, and ‘possiblies’ as we investigate their origins and activities.

So, let's begin ...

-o-

Apart from the well-known entities listed above the next most mentioned character in Irish brewing is one John Smithwick, whose participation in Irish brewing history is rather unclear and muddied once any real digging is made into his purported history. I’ve written about the subject of the Smithwick’s brewery many times before - ad nauseam some might say - and given my opinion on its origins based on the published and available material in common sources and archives, but here I will look a little closer at the man whose personal history should be recorded as best we can, seeing as he is thought of (rightly or wrongly) as a large and important figure in Irish brewing history.

The quoted paragraph at the start is from a booklet printed in 1953 called ‘The Smithwick Story’ published by the Irish Publicity company in Dublin as part of a series they hoped to produce on Irish industrial businesses. The publication includes some pages on the history of the brewery and how it operated in the fifties as well as the challenges that lay ahead. 

And that brief quoted history of Smithwick’s origin raises a few questions about the enigmatic John Smithwick who is purported to have begun the business in 1710.

Another version of the origin story is on the Smithwick’s Experience website, and states that the early eighteenth century was ‘a time of strict Penal Laws forbidding Catholics from owning land or running for local office. Into this scene arrives the orphan John Smithwick determined to defy the odds and begin trading’ and the general story being communicated by many sources is that John Smithwick was a Catholic orphan from Tipperary who came to Kilkenny and allegedly went into partnership with a Richard Cole on the site that now houses the brewery tour, and that he began brewing a red ale in 1710 - or variants of this tale. (Just to clarify, yet again, that this continuous brewing of the same beer is not possible, given the ingredients in the current beer at the very least.)

So who exactly was John Smithwick?

Sadly, and predictably given the passing of three centuries and more, information is quite scare, but by looking at a couple of independent sources - a genealogy site plus a book on the Smithwick’s family by Art Kavanagh* - we can put a little of his history together, especially if we go back a couple of generations from John to his grandfather, Lt. Colonel Henry Smithwick. 

Henry Smithwick was a protestant born in Hertfordshire in England in 1599 and having moved to Ireland sometime in the early 1600s was in the employment - as was his father Robert - of Richard Boyle, 1st Earl of Cork, a contentious figure in Irish history, to put it mildly. Henry was married to Mary Fortescue from Devon with whom he had two sons, Henry and William. He was part of the Cromwellian army and had land in Ballydarton in Carlow - where he also served as sheriff - as well as being resident in Waterford and Cork at various times. He died in 1670, and his sons both followed him into the army, with Henry junior achieving the rank of Captain in the army.

Captain Henry Smithwick was born around 1630 was listed as in ensign in 1649 in a section mentioning his father in "Depositions of Cromwell's Adherents" regarding the securing of the town of Youghal for English forces. He was registered on a census in Drogheda, Co. Louth in 1659, and as "Henry Smithwick, of Lord Lisburne's Regt of Foot, later Capt in Co Richard Coote's Regt of Foot" in Burke’s Peerage, and was still listed as being in the English army in 1692. He was familiar with Kilkenny as he removed the King James’s Royal Arms from the Tholsel (city hall) on the High Street and replaced them with King William of Orange’s. He was married to Sarah Meredith and had six children - one of whom was our John Smithwick. (This early history is set out in Kavanagh's book and backed up by the genealogy website that references Burke's Irish Family Records.)**

John was born in 1690 - there are no official, published records that tell us where, and married Jane Dunphy in 1719. Jane died in 1725 and they had no surviving children – they seem to have sadly lost 5 sons. He remarried at some point to Mary Grace who was born around 1710 with whom he had three sons, Edmond, Peter and Michael. He may have lived in Lazybush (Lousybush) just north of the city, as this is where Mary was from and where Peter was born.

There appears to be very little available history for John Smithwick but he seems to have been a protestant, like his father and grandfather, although his second wife Mary Grace was Catholic and so were her children. Kavanagh and other sources would seem to suggest that he remained protestant until his marriage to Mary Grace some time well after 1725 (given Mary's age and the date of his first wife's passing) and perhaps until his death. Both John and Mary died in 1768 and both are buried in St. Canice’s Church of Ireland Cathedral graveyard, very close to his first wife.

That's their gravestone at the top of this piece.

Of what John’s occupation was when he arrived in Kilkenny - if he didn’t already live near here - we are quite unclear, He doesn’t seem to have been mentioned in any military setting so it appears that he didn’t follow in his father and grandfather’s footsteps. Given who his father and grandfather were and the land they owned, it’s likely that John too was a man of some means at least at this time. Modern anecdotal sources mention a relationship with a Richard Cole as a brewer but there are no available records that show this. A Lease that claims to show the plot of land Cole being the site of the brewery near the St. Francis Abbey doesn’t mention John Smithwick and is also for a plot of land outside the Black Abbey Gate, so is clearly nowhere close to that site anyway. A short family history written by Walter Smithwick in the 1960s states that John Smithwick’s business at this time was unknown, and even the Smithwick’s Experience website now states that the brewery fell out of family hands and only returned to them in the early 19th century, so there is little history surrounding the so-called originator of the brewing dynasty.

So unfortunately, if not curiously, there is no published information for our John Smithwick being a brewer in any way – not an auspicious start to this series on Irish brewing figures! It does not mean that he wasn’t involved in brewing of course but the most optimistic scenario imaginable is that he was in some sort of business partnership with John Cole and that one or either had a small brewhouse at their house for the household's consumption - which was quite common – and somehow this morphed into him being a brewer, perhaps? In truth the house owner would never have been the actual brewer anyway, that would be done by one of the workers on the estate. So sadly, I can’t find any information that shows that John Smithwick started a brewery in 1710 as is often claimed, unless some more information comes to light or is released by certain parties.

The earliest written evidence of any of the Smithwick family owning a brewery was a few generations later, where through John’s son Peter, and Peter’s son John and then great grandson Edmond, the brewing arm of the business appears to have been started in 1827, having bought and converted a distillery for that purpose. There is mention in some sources that our John could not own a brewery in 1710 because of The Penal Laws forbidding Catholic ownership of businesses, but if he was protestant at this time - as reported by Kavanagh - then this law would not apply to him. It certainly would have applied to his children and grandchildren but they have never been shown to be connected to the brewery in any way by any source, and Edmond’s father John held lands and successful merchant businesses for many years prior to Edmond buying the lease on the brewery – surely he could have ‘declared’ his interest at least – if not ownership - in any brewery? The Smithwick family were certainly Catholic and staunch Nationalists by the 19th century it is worth adding.

It seems impossible to find how and why the 1710 reference was first mooted and what exact information led to this date being quoted, although it seems to first appear in print around 1892. Earlier sources such as trade directories or travel guides don’t mention the brewery, and those post 1827 don’t mention the date, nor any John Smithwick. For example 'The Official Illustrated Guide to the Great Southern & Western Railway' by George S. Measom from 1866 clearly states the brewery was established in 1828, which is near the right date and probably when they started brewing in any meaningful way. Perhaps there is some mention in the family records, but that would have been published with more detail surely – especially in the write-up by Walter Smithwick?

So, our first foray into the historical characters of Irish brewing doesn’t tell us much of who John Smithwick really was business wise, but it puts a little more history to the person himself. Hopefully new information will surface to throw some light on who exactly was the ‘mysterious’ - if less so now - Mr. Smithwick.

TBC? ...

Liam K

(Note. There is also a reference to a Smithwick marrying the daughter of someone in the Cromwellian army, Richard le Harte in Tipperary. This person is mentioned as a William Smithwick on one unverified genealogy website but there is no record of this daughter - Margaret - in any online biographies of Richard, nor does her proposed birthdate tie in with his timeline and marriage, and although a John is mentioned as a son the dates again don’t match and she would have had to have him at the age of 15, which isn’t impossible but not likely. Anyhow, the other family tree is from two seemingly reputable sources, so appears to be correct, subject to finding other information.)

*The Gentry & Aristocracy Kilkenny – Smithwick of Kilcreene St. George of Freshford Wandesforde of Castlecomer by Art Kavanagh

** This connection to English or Cromwellian soldiers and personnel is more common that one would think. If you go back far enough then many of us - including myself - had actual or reputed connections with those who came here at this time.

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. I relied heavily on the Art Kavanagh book mention above and the linked Smithwick family website for much of the content printed here, added to by other online sources as linked. The photo used is from my own collection and taken by me a few years ago. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

Beckett on Bars: The Session #147

There’s no shortage of mentions and images of Irish pubs and beers in the literature and artworks of this country, so when Phil Cook suggested the theme for this month’s The Session - basically to discuss something beer-related in art or fiction - selecting something to write about wasn’t difficult. The issue was more so to find something that hadn’t been written about before, or at least not to the point of readers skimming past it by it being just another misplaced or misinformed ode-to-the-ode ‘The Pint of Plain’ or another look at the Mr. Spock-like character in Harry Kernoff’s ‘A Bird Never Flew on One Wing.’ Not that these are not important and much-loved works, but they hardly warrant another revisit by me.

And where’s ‘here’? Well, The Session was originally conceived in 2007 by Stan Hieronymus and Jay Brooks as a way of pulling together a collection of blogposts from different beer writers on a single topic once a month, and hosted by a different writer each time who chooses a topic. It finished in 2018 but has since made a revenantial appearance thanks to Alan McLeod - this being #147, or #2.6 depending on whether you see it as a continuation of the old or the start of a new series.

This is my first proper contribution to the collection of writings.

-o-

Around the time when this month’s theme was announced I had acquired a copy of Samuel Beckett’s first novel called ‘More Pricks Than Kicks’ as once more I tried to delve into the works of The Big Irish Writers of the early 20th century. So far, I had failed with Joyce (apart from Dubliners), couldn’t find any huge love for Behan’s fictional work, O’ Casey was too theatrical for my taste, and O’Brien/O’Nolan/Na gCopaleen/etc. had been quite hit and miss. Beckett’s works didn’t seem to hold out any more hope for grabbing and holding on to my clearly substandard intellect but seeing as ‘More Pricks’ was a series of short stories like Dubliners I decided to give it a try.

It is a collection of related tales woven around a character called Belacqua Shuah and is set in and around Dublin, presumably in the early parts of the 20th century. The main protagonist is a somewhat unlovable character - for the reader at least -  who has some unfortunate relationships and a penchant for gorgonzola, mustard and cayenne sandwiches on blackened toast - possibly his most likeable attribute. The book itself would have been classed quite risqué in places at the time it was first published in 1934. Indeed it was seemingly banned in Ireland at that time, which is hardly a shocker given how the country was firmly in the grip of the clergy then as many tried desperately to find an upper level hierarchical body to replace the lost overlords in our relatively new country - quasi-militant Catholicism filled that void quite nicely for some. Even today it might certainly be cancelled for the latent misogyny that appears on occasion in its pages, although that’s not a reason for any rational person to ban, cancel or indeed, burn it.

Anyhow, most of the book is certainly quite readable and entertaining, although in parts it suffers from the same problem I have with the syntax, grammar and wording used by certain Irish writers, where some passages appear to have been translated into a vocally similar sounding but unfamiliar language by one person just using just a dictionary, before being translated back to English by another separate hand who similarly has no knowledge of the language into which they are translating, and who lazily decides to leave a few non-English words in the text to boot. (I am fully convinced that you could read out loud passages of Joyce’s Ulysses, for example, to a non-English speaker in Antwerp and they would nod along enthusiastically to whatever they were apparently hearing in their own dialect, regardless of what it meant in English.) The result is something that you can, at a push, make sense of and understand but it requires a lot of hard work on the reader’s part and can ruin the flow and entertainment that should be derived from reading. (And yes, dear reader, I’m hardly one to talk about jittery, over-punctuated, writing styles and invented words I know …)

But even allowing for my shoddy intellectual capability to understand parts of this book there are flashes of pure brilliance that even I can recognise, and one such passage is the piece of writing I want to highlight for this month’s The Session.

-o-

In the third chapter of the book, titled ‘Ding-Dong,’ our sub-hero is out on the town one evening and having walked up Pearse Street has ‘turned left into Lombard Street’ and ‘entered a public house.’ This may have been the public house now known as The Lombard, whose bar entrance appears to have been just across the road after the turn, but quite possibly was the pub that sat on the site where The Windjammer now is, further down the road at the corner of Townsend Street but with an entrance on Lombard Street. Certainly given Beckett’s description of ‘the rough but kindly habitués of the house, recruited for the most part from among dockers, railwaymen and vague joxers on the dole’ it might perhaps sound like the latter at the time but clues are scarce.

Regardless, it was the account of his experience within the establishment that grabbed my attention the most, just before anxiety and despondency hit him as he contemplated the day’s events and his general future:

Sitting in this crapulent den, drinking his drink, he gradually ceased to see its furnishings with pleasure, the bottles, representing centuries of loving research, the stools, the counter, the powerful screws, the shining phalanx of the pulls of the beer-engines, all cunningly devised and elaborated to further the relations between purveyor and consumer in this domain. The bottles drawn and emptied in a twinkling, the casks responding to the slightest pressure on their joysticks, the weary proletarians at rest on arse and elbow, the cash-register that never complains, the graceful curates flying from customer to customer, all this made up a spectacle which Belacqua was used to take delight and chose to see a pleasant instance of machinery decently subservient to appetite. A great major symphony of supply and demand, effect and cause, fulcrate on the middle C of the counter and waxing, as it proceeded, in the charming harmonies of blasphemy and broken glass and all the aliquots of fatigue and ebriety. So that he would say that the place where he could come to anchor and be happy was a low public house and that all the wearisome tactics of gress and dud Beethoven would be done away with if only he could spend his life in such a place. But as they closed at ten, and as residence and good faith were viewed as incompatible, and as in any case he had not means to consecrate his life to stasis, even in the meanest bar, he supposed he must be content to indulge this whim from time to time, and return thanks for such sporadic mercy.*

Although even the latter parts of this passage suffer from the 'Flemishisation' that I mentioned earlier, it is pure prose and poetry combined. Something perhaps that should be studied and discussed by students in schools throughout this and other lands. We have poetic parts such as the ‘charming harmonies of blasphemy and broken glass’ and an almost religious aspect to his thoughts and feelings as he sat drinking his porter. It is descriptive to an extreme in how it portrays an early 20th century urban public house, with mentions of beer engines, cork-pullers, bar staff known as ‘graceful curates’ and customers ‘at rest on arse and elbow.’ The wording keenly reflects how this pub was seen to be a refuge and place of escape, albeit with some reservations, at that time. Superb stuff. 

I am not sure it requires much more discussion, perhaps just a second reading and maybe a third For me it is probably the best written piece on drinking and public houses that I have so far encountered, and it is worth nothing that I first read the passage in a public house on a quiet Saturday afternoon, at rest on arse and elbow.

So, I shall say no more, just go back and read it again, and again ...

Liam

*I quote this piece from the book purely for educational and non-commercial reasons, some hopefully I will not get in trouble with the executors of Beckett’s estate!?

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. The quoted piece from Beckett's More Pricks than Kicks appears on pages 39 & 40 of the Picador 1974 edition. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

Good Green Beer - 'London's Greatest Beverage'

Down with the Emerald Ale!

Here's to good old beer, Mop it down ! 

You can have it thick or clear, Black or brown!

Though it's still as good in pubs,

It's as green in West End clubs

As the greenest debs, and subs,

Up in town!

When you're feeling 'ale and 'earty

For a drink,

From the swagger bottle-party

You should shrink;

Or you'll find 'em handing you

Beer that's bottle-green in hue -

And I wonder when the brew

Will be pink?

All the honest souls who've hankered

For a Bass

Freshly foaming inn tankard

Or a glass, Say the name of those is mud

Who would have them chew the cud

Of an alcoholic flood

Green as grass!

MERRY ANDREW.

The Daily Mirror, 6th December 1930

Green beer has - rightly or wrongly - had some bad press over recent years. This is mostly due the Yankish habit of dressing, dyeing or painting anything in plain sight a lurid shade of green for St. Patrick’s Day. Beer could hardly escape, and over recent decades, mostly thanks to social media, we have been inundated with pints of green beer every March, much to the consternation of many folks on this side of the big pond. But in these intolerant times perhaps we shouldn’t judge these dyers and drinkers too harshly, as we espouse the mantra of ‘Drink what you like.’ Indeed the beverage has history too, with some claiming it dates right back to the early 20th century, so a hundred years of tradition must count for something, surely?

But perhaps its heyday as a trendy and elegant beverage - however fleeting - was in the very first year or two of the 1930s, when green beer became a mini-sensation, and not in America, or Ireland for that matter, but in the fashionable bars of London. And we can neatly trace its rise and fall by the newspapers of the era ...

-o-

One of the earliest mentions of this new beverage is The Yorkshire Post & Leeds Intelligencer in late October 1930, and a column by a 'J. N. H. M.' who had the following to say about the beverage:

As to the green beer, I have heard many descriptions of its peculiar and individual flavour, but to me it tasted just like any other sort of beer in spite of its lurid emerald colour. Brewed in Scotland, it is at present the monopoly of the proprietors a restaurant in Bury Street, who "invented" it.

Hardly a glowing or detailed review but it shows that it had certainly been around for a short while at this point, and a week or so later this new concoction appeared in the society pages of the London Weekly Dispatch when the author Arnold Bennett was seen ‘drinking the newest drink of all in a Bury Street restaurant - green beer.’ The author, one John Grosvenor, goes on to state that the beverage ‘looks like particularly clear crème de menthe, and tastes like - beer, good beer.’

Again we have the mention of a certain restaurant in Bury Street, London, and the same venue gets mentioned again in The Yorkshire Post & Leeds Intelligencer in mid November where yet another social column tells us of the ‘chic West End restaurant’ where ‘the younger set’ had ‘seized on this attraction to illustrate love of novelty and independence.’ We also glean that it is served in round shaped goblets that when filled ‘resemble emeralds of a size to make even a maharajah gasp.’

Given these descriptions it appears to have been a strong and clear green shade, and not just slightly tinged green, and certainly not murky or hazy.

Around this time we read about it being served at the parties and balls of the great and the good at their mansions and castles, a sure sign it has become the In Thing to serve for Christmas 1930, and indeed by February 1931 The Talk of the Town column in The Daily Mail can state categorically that ‘green beer parties are the latest vogue of London’s smart set’ and go on to say that ‘in comparison, the cocktail party is now old-fashioned.’ It also states that no artificial colouring is added to the beverage and that it is a type of lager. The author ends the piece by telling us that ‘in society circles, I am told, women drink pints of it at a sitting.’

That same month we discover a little more about the beer’s origins when The Lincolnshire Echo publishes the following:

The new green beer that an enterprising Scottish firm is brewing seems to have won palates in Mayfair. Men regularly order it the more expensive supper restaurants and women too frequently drink it from cut crystal mugs, in which it looks highly attractive. On board the ‘‘Oropesa” was a stock. It was taken on board specially for the Prince of Wales. It said that the inventor of this beer is Sir Michael Malcolm, tenth baronet, Lord Digby s brother-in-law. He was severely wounded in the war and was subsequently A.D.C. to the G.O.C. Scottish Command in Edinburgh. He left the Service to go into the brewing trade, and this is the result! The distributing agents for Lincoln and district are Norton Turton, Ltd, 6 Guildhall-street, Lincoln.

So, Scottish brewed, and a change in drinking vessel to cut crystal mugs, the appearance of which would possibly have put the aforementioned maharajah's eye out!

But perhaps the best write-up on the whole trend appears in an Irish newspaper - The Roscommon Herald - in March 1931 and is worth quoting here in its entirety.

According to an American, Green Beer is London's greatest beverage. It tastes like beer but looks like creme de menthe. Although green, it is not insipid in taste. Rather in everything but appearance, it is the same in composition as a light lager beer. When habitues of a certain cocktail bar in Bury Street are feeling blue, or a little off colour, green beer is consumed to restore the rosy outlook on life they desire. It costs the same as ordinary beer, and has the same percentage of alcohol in it. This intriguing new drink is brewed in Scotland, being the first green thing ever to come from that country. It is manufactured in the same way as any other form of bottled beer, except for a secret process which prevents it from losing the verdant hue of the hops from which it - evolves. Just as an experiment, the proprietor of, the Bury Street rendezvous for smart Mayfair ordered six dozen bottles of green beer. They had disappeared by closing time. This new drink is especially popular with women. They like brown and golden autumnal tints for dresses and hats, but for drinks they ask for something more springlike. Scotland has again satisfied their capricious wishes.

"Green beer has come to stay," said the cocktail bar proprietor.

Publicans who manage the ordinary type of "thirst. emporium," to borrow a phrase of Sparrow Robertson's, however, scorn such revolution in colour of their most popular form of lubrication.

When interviewed on green beer, Patrick Michael Sweeny, better known to his friends as “Ginger," who manages a well-known Strand pub, declared in paradoxical Hibernian that there was no such thing as green beer, and he would not order any as an experiment from the brewers. He declared that the green beer development was a plot of the Scots, to obtain more money to promote Caledonian Home Rule, now that Ireland was free.

It is believed in London that soon beer will take on every hue of the rainbow. There are pink elephants and purple alligators seen every day in London and its environs. Why not blue beer with luncheon every Monday just to counteract the depressing surroundings of the office?

Notwithstanding the comment regarding the beer retaining the colour of the hops, this might be the finest summation of the beer trend ever written, even working a comment about Scottish Home Rule into the piece, however tongue in cheek.

By April it was such a success that it was available from most grocers in London according to the London Woman’s Letter printed in the Portsmouth Evening News. (A label was registered the previous month and can be seen here.) The author also pointed out that this success was an interesting social phenomenon, as ‘women who will refuse ordinary beer almost with scorn, will drink beer if it is green in colour, with the greatest relish.’  She goes on to say that at a recent party she attended there was 'an excellent lager and not a single lady would accept a glass but when the maids came around with green beer on trays three out of four women took a glass.’

Advertisements start to appear in newspapers in May of 1931 and through the summer some eye-catching ones were printed such as this one in The Tatler in July - where we see it being promoted to women drinkers - 'pleasing their palates with its subtle tang' - and we have a brewer mentioned, John Jeffery & Co. in Edinburgh. And the Michael Malcolm mentioned previously was indeed part of the management of this brewery.

Another shows and elegant and typical 1930s illustration, and again it is clearly being marketed to society women, with even a mention of it being sweeter than other beers.

And the theme continues as we can see, and perhaps it was one of the first beers ever promoted specifically toward women? But at least it wasn't pink ...

But, trends being trends of course it didn’t last, and by the following year it at abated to the point of scant mentions in newspapers and no more advertisements, pointing towards its demise as a beverage for the movers and shakers of the day to be seen imbibing. Even the author J B Priestley weighed in during a rant in The Yorkshire Evening Post in September 1932 about originality not necessarily always being a great thing in literature, and commenting on those who see anything new and unusual as being good by saying that they ‘want something new and odd to read, just as they frequently want something new and odd to eat and drink. They have the same attitude towards books that the people, who, last year, began drinking “green beer,” must have towards beverages.’ In this, Priestley was succinctly summing up the era in general, so it is hardly surprising that its popularity disappeared, replaced by the next Big Thing in drink. Plus ça change ...

By the mid 1930s it is mostly spoken about in the past test, and in slightly nostalgic tones, and so it appears that this iteration of green beer was consigned to the ever-growing beer history scrapheap.

But, a couple of questions remain unanswered…

Firstly, what was the name of the bar or restaurant where it first appeared in London, as alluded to in some of the mentions above? The most likely place was Quaglino’s which was at 16 Bury Street and certainly catered to the type of clientele who would be looking for trendy and interesting drinks, and was the haunt of both high society and celebrities - but this is of course just an assumption. 

Secondly, what was added to the beer to make it green? Probably, as today it was a blue dye, which, combined with the yellowish colour of the lager to give it a green hue. Coal tar was often used to create various coloured dyes, and some were used in foodstuffs and drink, but with the comments, if true, of it being a natural product, it was more likely to have been a vegetable dye, of which there were a few, and it would be just speculation at this point in time to suggest any particular one.

-o-

We will leave the last word to the writer of a column in The Bradford Observer in April 1944, titled ‘Palate and Palette’

The link between colours and comestibles is mysterious but undeniable. I know many a corrupt eye and palate which prefer salmon from the tin to salmon from the Tay because its pink is richer and more aggressively Turneresque. I seem to remember there was once a green beer on the market. One doesn't hear of it now, which is not in the least surprising. Green beer is as repugnant to any normally constituted taste as blue tea or purple lemonade.

Liam K

(As well as the links above, it has also been mentioned here previously by others.)

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. Newspaper research was thanks to The British Newspaper Archive, who have kindly let me share the above images. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

A Shot of Beer History #8: The Case of a Naggin Too Much ...

A curious case presented itself in the village of Moneygall in Offaly in 1869 and was reported in the local newspaper, where an inspector of weights and measures found that there were many cases where the volumes of measures used in certain public houses for serving ale and porter to the customer were incorrect, but not in favour of the publican - in most cases the loss was on the side of the seller. Nevertheless, the publicans were summoned to appear in front of the local magistrates and as examples, a pair of half-gallon measures were produced belonging to two publicans, a Mr. McDonnell and a Mrs. Wafer. Both measures had been found to be correct six months previous but now held a naggin more than they previously did according to the inspector. This would equate to over 4% extra liquid per measure, which would amount to a moderate but notable loss to the publican over time.

The magistrates were at a loss as to how this could happen, but the puzzle was solved when a tinman called Mr. Waters took to the stand and gave the following explanation. He described how 'when the "buys" called for "a half gallon," and finished it, they were in the habit of "drivin' down the bottom with the butt of a whip," in order that the next "measurement" might be larger.' This could certainly be achieved quite easily with measures that had an inset rim around the base, which most certainly did by way of manufacture. He also confessed that 'when he made the vessels he did "hansell" them' himself. (A 'hansel' appears to be an old and obsolete name for the handle of a flail, so possibly also a whip.) So this seems to have been a common practice - in Moneygall anyhow - and a good reason to bring your whip on your drinking sessions!

The session chairman joked that Mr. Waters should not be allowed to make vessels for the houses in which he was in the habit of drinking, much to the laughter of the assembled audience, before another magistrate - a Captain Garvey, who appears to be a bit of a spoilsport - interjected to point out that a heavy penalty could be imposed on any person who sold unjust measures.

The bench eventually dismissed all the cases where the loss was with the seller, as no fraud on their part could possibly be intended, although all measures were to be readjusted to the satisfaction of the inspector.

Perhaps the publicans kept a closer eye on the bases of their measures and those who carried whips or flails into their house after that, but it was certainly an ingenious way of getting a larger pour of porter!

Liam K

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. Newspaper research was thanks to The British Newspaper Archive and the quoted article appears in The Kings County Chronicle of 3rd February 1869. The photo of the measure - and the measure itself - is the author's own. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

100 Years of Irish Brewing in 50 Objects: #25 – Keg Harp Tankard (1965)

Goodbye to the Port and Brandy,

To the Vodka and the Stag,

To the Schmiddick and the Harpic,

The bottle, draught and keg ...

Delirium Tremens – Christy Moore - 1985

It is probably fair to say that there are two well-known glass beer tankards engrained in the memories of Irish beer drinkers. One is - of course - the Guinness Waterford Barware tankard that is familiar to anyone with even a vague awareness of the company’s branded glassware beyond the tulip pint glass, or who has seen its image on retro signs and advertisements, or perhaps on those old-style dispensers that have become quite popular again on certain bar counters. But those fragile, thin-walled mugs had a tougher and heftier cousin in the same sixties and seventies period, which was of course the Harp tankard. Like the Guinness tankard, it was used in Harp’s marketing campaign, especially on beermats where its outline in yellow and blue stood out from others. It was seen to be drank by Vikings, and it and its contents were dreamed about by sweaty men in foreign lands longing for a piece of home, and a look from Sally O’Brien. It is certainly an iconic piece of glassware by any standard terms.

Harp lager itself has its origins in Dundalk, Co. Louth, where in 1959 Dr. Hermann Muender, a German brewmaster who had worked at the Dom Brewery in Cologne amongst other places, was charged by Guinness to build a lager brewery and create a new beer on the site of the old Great Northern Brewery. It was perhaps a reaction by the company to the perceived threat by - and increased sales in - continental lagers in recent years with brands such as Carlsberg already making inroads in Ireland, where it and other continental lagers were seen as cool and trendy by the young drinkers of the 1960s. But where there is threat there is also opportunity, and brewing commenced in 1960 with the launch of just a bottled product at first, as this was the standard way of serving lagers at this time. According to Dr. Muender the first three-dozen bottles produced were sent to Kennedy’s Railway Bar opposite the brewery on the Carrick Road, having been bottled in the bottling plant in old Cairnes brewery in Drogheda.

The next step was to launch the beer in the UK, which happened in 1961, and soon after it was being brewed there too - and the whole Harp Anglo-Irish history is a story in itself.* A stronger version of the lager variously known as Harp Extra, Harp Special or Harp Blue was launched in Ireland in late 1963 having been on sale overseas previously, and finally, a year later, a draught version of the standard lager first appeared.

And so ‘Keg Harp,’ as this draught product was first termed, became available in 1964 in Ireland, and advertisements featuring the tankard first appear in that year. In Ireland this was the decade when kegged, pasteurised and filtered beers began to dominate and replace bottled beers. Kegged Guinness had been around for a number of years in various serving formats, and there was now an influx of English ale brands encroaching on the Irish pub scene, leading in 1965 to the development of new Smithwick Draught by Guinness (having acquired 99% of the shares in the brewery the previous year) in an attempt to compete with those ‘foreign’ brands, even if some were brewed on the island. The launch of a draught version of Harp meant that from the mid-sixties the Guinness company was in a great position to compete in the three main beer styles on the emerging war theatre that was the bar counters of public house around the whole of the island, and beyond of course.

All of this meant that new glassware was now required in the shape of pint and half-pint receptacles, and at exactly this point during the sixties and early seventies there was a small craze for glass beer mugs in Ireland. Guinness Draught got the aforementioned Waterford Barware tankards, as did Smithwick’s Draught in a different style - a reuse of the Time rebrand ones from the previous year or so - plus there were quite a few others such as Phoenix, Celebration, Double Diamond and quite a few others. The original stemmed Harp glasses for the bottled products were also made by Waterford Glass’s barware division, but for their new draught lager Guinness went in a different direction. According to Martyn Cornell** it was produced by United Glass (Ravenhead) in the UK and designed by the prolific Alexander Hardie Williamson who is reputed to have designed in the region of 1,700 glasses for both domestic and bar use during his 27 years at the company.

But as ever with anything to do with Irish beer history, things are not quite as simple as they appear. In fact there are at least 3 different beer tankard designs in this style, albeit with quite subtle differences.

The original tankard appears to have been heavily influenced by those robust, conical pint tumblers made in moulds (as were the Harp tankards) from either side of 1900 that were still being made and in use up to the 1940s. These tumblers had fluted grooves very reminiscent of Williamson’s design and on some those grooves alternated in height just like the first iteration of the Harp glassware, plus both had thick bases and a robust feel. These early Harp tankards have a pint-to-line mark around the rim and carry both UK and Irish verification marks as to volume, although the Irish mark does not mention pint-to-line but the UK version does. There is a degree of variation of logo on these glasses too, with some carrying the words Keg Harp in one line with a crowned HL between the words, while other examples have the words in separate lines with the word Harp in gold lettering with a blue outline. Yet another variant in lettering has the words reversed to read Harp Keg with the latter word now in Gold in a stencil-like font (The earliest advertisements use this glass and lettering although with the words the 'correct' way around.) Oversized half-pint versions were also made, and that Head space in both sizes might be a nod to the beers German origins and the Teutonic frothy pour as in seen in many an Oktoberfest image. Although, there is also some reporting*** that the kegged product was quite frothy in the early days so this might have been a way of overcoming the issue and not leaving the customer with too short a serve and angry encounters with the bar person!

The next evolution of the design sees a similar volume of oversized pint but now the fluted grooves are all the same height and have reduced in number from 21 to 20, with one missing on the opposite side of the glass to the handle, on the mould line. The words Keg Harp are also now just in blue, with a slight font change, if not a new typeface. The handle remains the same, as does the general heftiness of the tankard, with both this and the previous version being very slightly wider in diameter at the base.

The final, and last version of this sixties and seventies period has the tankard reduced in volume, but not height, to an actual pint (although the half-pints with line, seem to remain at over a half pint even in this version). It has 20 grooves still, although they are more pronounced, but the handle has been changed from a round cross-section to a more squarish shape and starts lower down the body, which is now evenly cylindrical from top to bottom. The logo appears the same as the previous version and this tankard was also available with the words ‘Harp Lager' when the marketing moved away from the use of the word Keg in the seventies.

These changes are hard to track date-wise but based on verification stamps V1 seems to date from the mid to late sixties, V2 the very early seventies, and V3 from not long after, and this is the version that was probably in use up until the early eighties - although all could have been in use for long periods in different regions of these islands. There are very possibly other variations in design too as well as logo changes, and the glass colour appears to vary too from bluish to yellowish on different glasses. Whether any of these changes reflect different actual makers at different periods, or whether Williamson was involved in any tweaks is unclear, but the changes are certainly there, albeit only important and noticeable to those beset with a particular level of pedantry.

It should be noted that there are examples of late sixties verified dimple tankards which were also used for Harp, and a new version of the Harp tankard - although squatter and more unwieldly - was launched around the mid-nineties. It was made by the Dema glass company but it didn’t quite catch on and appears to have mostly been used for promotional giveaways.

-o-

Keg Harp, or Draught Harp, or Harp Lager was certainly a hugely important line for Guinness up until the eighties and early nineties when foreign lager brands, due to media exposure and changing consumer tastes, began to exert their dominance on the bar counter. Ironically many were brewed by Irish based breweries anyway, including by Guinness. Harp - the brand - seems to have just slowly backed out of the war, and at this point in time just sits in pint bottles in the odd bar, and only occasionally appears on those counters it once warred on and dominated ... like a few Irish beer brands it's now brewed in Dublin, and appears to have lost its fight, direction and momentum.

For now at least ...

Liam K

*For more history on Harp see Boak & Bailey’s write-up here.

** Martyn Cornell's post where he references the Harp tankard is here.

***  The Guinness Book of Guinness, compiled by Edward Guinness

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its source, and a link back to this post. The items featured are from the author's own collection. All sources, not mentioned, are available on request. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

100 Years of Irish Brewing in 50 Objects: #24 – Smithwick’s Poker Cards (c. 1957)

Someone behind drinks ale,

And opens mussels, and croaks scraps of songs

Towards the ham-strung rafters about love.

Dirk deals the cards.

Excerpt from The Card-Players – Philip Larkin

Gaming and drinking are hardly new bedfellows, and it would be fair to say that the practice goes back many centuries if not millennia, so it was hardly a surprise that sometime in the late 1950s someone within the greater Smithwick’s brewery fold of marketing gurus had the brainwave to produce a poker game that could be used to advertise their drinks. It was at a time when many drink companies were exploring ways to brand their output and advertise their beers more in newspapers, and promote them with items such as branded glassware, beermats and other bits of ephemera. Colour printing was becoming more affordable and the use of graphics and images in newspaper advertisements was starting to become more the norm than the exception, and marketing brains were becoming more inventive in their pitching of concepts and ideas in that alleged golden age of advertising. So, it isn’t completely surprising that a brewery would go down the route of producing something a little unusual like this, a giveaway item, as a form of promotion - assuming that it was used in such a way.

The game was designed by Domas Ltd, an advertising and marketing company who also dealt with the newspaper advertisements and other marketing for Smithwick’s, and was printed by the firm of Bailey, Son & Gibson Ltd, both of whom were based in Dublin, so this is truly an Irish originated item - even if the images on the cards seem to have somewhat of an English slant? Based on the general style of the imagery and the typeface, plus the words ‘Everybody’s Drinking Smithwick’s’ on the reverse of the cards which was used in Smithwick’s advertising on the island of Ireland in the 1950s, it is from that period. The era can be narrowed down further as Domas appear to have taken over the advertising for the brewery in the second half of the decade, and the exact line-up shown by the counters was only available in Ireland at this time too, so although there are not dates on the pack it is an educated guess to state it dates from the latter half of the 1950s given the information at hand. There is also an assumption it was made specifically for the Irish market, which may not be the case of course.

As to the game itself, it comprises of 19 cards - 2 pairs of 8 different faces plus one joker - a booklet of instructions, and 24 counters showing the labels of 3 different types of beers, Smithwick’s No. 1 ale, plus their barley wine and their export ale. There are 4 different games listed in the booklet all if which seem relatively complicated, and one would think that with drink taken they would be quite a challenge! It is clearly a marketing tool aimed very much at men, which is hardly a surprise given the era we are dealing with. Some of the colour illustrations were no doubt thought of as cheeky at the time and certainly would not be tolerated nowadays. They are somewhat Gilroy-esque (the well-known Guinness illustrator) and there is something familiar about the style, although sadly the artist is not mentioned on any printed piece in the game or its packaging. (Incidentally, the illustrations in the instruction booklet clearly show the use of the flared pilsner glassware which had become the ubiquitous style used with bottled beers, as well as the standard shape used when ordering a ‘glass’ - the Irish terminology for a half-pint - of beer.) The whole game is very well designed and constructed, and they were presumably made in their 100s of not 1,000s, although they seem to be a relatively rare item now in this complete state.

-o-

But what of those ales featured on the counters and Smithwick’s beers in general in the 1950s? What do we know of them, if anything? Well, during this period these three products seem to have been the main output of the Smithwick’s company, with the Kilkenny brewery having chopped and changed its beers over the previous century or so depending on the tastes of the times, and other issues.

By far the most important and commonplace was ‘Smithwick’s No. 1 Ale,' which was predominantly a bottled product but was also available in draught form. This was a clear, golden ale - as were most Irish ales at this time - and could possibly trace its origins and popularity, at least, to the pale ale which was the mainstay of the brewery in the previous century. The travel guide writer George Measom, a visitor to the brewery in 1866, stated that there were 'two enormous pale ale vaults' in which were stored '4,000 hogsheads of ale.' Interestingly, he also mentions the malting process within the brewery and how carefully it had to be dried 'to prevent the slightest tinge or colour being imparted to the malt,' and also with regard to the boiling process he states that the coppers are uncovered 'to preserve the colour of the wort, which would be darkened by higher pressure,' so they were truly going to great lengths to keep the beer as pale as possible. It would be wrong to absolutely link this pale ale to the Smithwick’s No. 1 of almost a century later, especially as the brewery produced other beers such as what they termed Mild and Bitter ales in the latter half of the 19th century, and listed India Pale Ale, XXX, XX and X, along with various porters, toward the very end of that century. The ‘No. 1’ could be related to that XXX ale either, as that beer would certainly have been classed as such by some breweries, although XXX ales would generally be quite strong and as we shall see the No.1 ale was possibly not very alcoholic, although it may have just been weakened over time. But regardless of the nomenclature or origins - the first advertisements seem to date from the 1930s - this 1950s version of a pale ale was the breweries most popular product at this time, and it lived on for a while after the brewery changed to the Time branding for its beers in 1960. It was certainly still available in the mid-to-late sixties as advertisements show, but - sadly - is now only remembered by the ‘No.1’ printed on the bottles of modern Smithwick’s ale. A beer which it certainly is not.

That Time rebrand in 1960 also helps with our knowledge of Smithwick’s Export Ale, as this beer was rebranded as Time Ale - or Time Beer - and an advertisement for this product describes it as ‘full of golden goodness,’ which at least gives us an idea of the colour. It was presumably the weakest of the three stablemates in the Time collection, with Time Extra sounding like a stronger version of the same beer (see below), and Time Barley Wine being the strongest. Smithwick’s Export Ale only became available in Ireland in 1955 - the brewery had been exporting their beers since the middle of the 19th century - and was called ‘Smithwick’s No. 1 Export Ale’ in newspaper adverts from that year. This iteration of their export ale appears to have been available beyond these shores since 1949 before finally surfacing here.

That last product in the Time line-up can be assumed to be just a rebrand of the barley wine from the 1950s as seen on the tokens in the poker game, although that label does not appear to be as common as other designs. Whereas the previous two Time beers were served in half-pint bottles the Time barley wine came in a third of a pint version, and it is possible that this was also the case in the fifties. The beer is helpfully described in Time advertisements as ‘rich, ruby [and] heartwarming’ which gives us a colour change at last at from it pale stablemates.

Sadly, we can only guess at the strength of these beers as the Smithwick brewing records are not available to the public. In later years with the brewery wholly in the hands of Guinness, well after the end of the Time rebranding experiment and the launch of the now ubiquitous Smithwick’s Draught, the barley wine was - at 5.5% abv - surprisingly weak, and was also now available in half-pint bottles. If that was also the strength of the product in the 1950s - and there are no available records that can confirm this - then export was weaker again and No. 1 possibly the weakest? It is quite possible that 1950s and 1960s barley wine was somewhat stronger and perhaps may have weakened over the years? (This may not be the case, as a poster in a Kilkenny pub showing the prices for beers in 1962 state that a pint of Time Barley Wine could be bought for 2 shillings and 2 pence versus a pint of 'plain' Time ale at 1 shilling and 6 pence. It would be unlikely to be very strong if sold in pints, and at that price.)

There were some other Smithwick’s ales around this time, such as one called ‘Black Diamond’ which was possibly a nod to the coalmining district of Castlecomer in Kilkenny, which isn’t far from the city, plus a beer called SS, which may have stood for ‘Special Strength,’ and was the intermediate beer in the Time rebrand, where it became Time Extra.

-o-

So this poker game is more than just a piece of inconsequential, fifties brewery marketing, it is a snapshot of the general output of the Smithwick’s brewery in the middle of the 20th century, before its Time rebrand and its complete regroup around Smithwick’s Draught, the then new English-style keg ale launched in the mid-sixties that we are so familiar with in the pubs of Ireland.

This is a tangible - and relatively playable - piece of Irish brewing history.

And we certainly appear to have been playing games with Irish brands and beers ever since …

Liam K

You can read more about the Time rebrand here.

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its source, and a link back to this post. The item featured is from the author's own collection. The game it is copyrighted and used here for educational, non-profit purposes. All sources, where mentioned, are available on request. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!

100 Years of Irish Brewing in 50 Objects: #23 – Guinness 'Belgian' Tumbler (c. 1950)

I felt the most extraordinary desire for a glass of Guinness, which I knew could be obtained without difficulty. Upon expressing my wish to the doctor, he told me I might take a small glass. It was not long before I sent for the Guinness and I shall never forget how much I enjoyed it. I thought I had never tasted anything so delightful. I am confident that it contributed more than anything else to the renewal of my strength - from the Diary of a Cavalry Officer, June 1815, after being severely wounded at the Battle of Waterloo.

Ethel M. Richardson, "LONG FORGOTTEN DAYS." (1928) via The Sketch Guinness advertisement 1938

Although this object itself has but a loose link to Irish brewing history it is still an important link, as it could and should be seen as a tangible part of the porter export trade from this country, and particularly from its biggest brewery – that of the Guinness enterprise in Dublin. There is a long history of exporting porter from Ireland which has been recorded elsewhere with varying degrees of detail but the above glass connects into the Guinness export trade to Europe and, in particular, to Belgium. An export trade that to a modern eye would seem to be the equivalent of sending coal to Newcastle, given that Belgium is now synonymous with good and plentiful beer to most of those with an interest in the subject.

But, as we can see from the above - granted anecdotal - quotation, Belgium is a country that has been experiencing Guinness’s porters for quite a few years, albeit in that case by military contract via England it would appear.

-o-

This glass is a wonderful piece of workmanship that no photo will do justice to. It is made from quality glass that approaches lead crystal in colour, quality and sound, and appears to be mould-blown or similarly formed before the eight facets were cut and polished by hand to form an octagonal-shaped lower section around an extra thick base, with the bottom of the glass also polished to an incredible smoothness. As to the more boring details, the tumbler is approximately 15cm high by 8.5cm wide at its mouth, it weighs 400grms and holds 400ml of liquid, an important volume, as will transpire later. It hearkens back to similar conical tumblers of the late Victorian and early 20th century. These heavy-based, fluted pint glasses were relatively common on these islands before the popularity of undecorated, plain or ‘straight’ (‘Shaker,’ as they would be termed in America) glasses, which themselves gave way to other styles later on. There is also a nod perhaps to the continental ribbed or fluted tumblers used these days (and most likely in the past) by some lambic brewers. The gold lettering around the harp symbol seems to date them to the mid-20th century, and the same logo was used on goblets produced to mark Guinness’s bicentenary year in 1959. Another, probably slightly later version with a buff coloured logo was also produced, which was presumably a little more durable during washing, and the glass itself appears in at least one advertisement, on a showcard from 1950 for the Italian market*. (Curiously, a slightly less tapered version of the glass with a shallower base and without the logo is illustrated in a showcard in English dated to c1912**, which might be an indication of the inspiration for the design, or adoption of an already known design for the continental market.) There is no indication of the country of origin for the glass but Belgium, France or any of the surrounding countries would be a relatively safe bet, unless they were commissioned from a Czech supplier, as they are certainly of that quality and heft. (Belgium was certainly making imperial pint tumblers with groves around the bottom for the English and Irish markets late in the first half of the 20th century, but they were somewhat cruder and wholly moulded.)

That capacity mentioned above of 400ml could be an important indicator of the true purpose of the glass, as this volume is a perfect fit for a 330ml bottle of Guinness including room for a head right up to the rim without overflowing, which is helped by the conical shape. The name and product that comes to mind in the 1950s with regard to Guinness on the continent, and Belgium in particular is John Martin in Antwerp, and bottles of Guinness Foreign Export Stout.

With the help of David Hughes excellent book ‘A Bottle of Guinness Please’ the following early history of the company can be cobbled together from various mentions and references within its pages.

John Martin wasn’t the first or only importer of Guinness into Belgium, there were others before him and operating alongside him in the country when he was appointed an agent in 1912 for Antwerp, and he started bottling that same year – although some draught stout was also being sold during this period. At this point Guinness’s Extra Stout (ES) and Extra Foreign Stout (AKA Foreign Extra Stout, or FES) were being imported into the country. This changed to Export Extra Stout (GXS) around the time Martin commenced bottling (although there is a contradictory mention of him bottling ES in 1913, and these names and abbreviations are a minefield to traverse.) and Guinness began to see an improvement in sales. This was also helped by a marketing budget that included newspaper advertisements as well as showcards, metal signage and postcards. Sales were showing some growth up to the start of World War I when exports stopped. Supply recommenced in 1920 and by 1923 the main beer being sold by Martin was ES with just some FES, the beer being bottled in reputed pint (379ml[?] approximately) bottles at this point. This was the year that they merged with the Schweppes company with Martin remaining on as the managing director. Sales were generally poor at this point and suffered from rivals Bass’s stout being stronger and pasteurised, so therefore more stable and consistent, unlike Guinness’s stouts. In 1930 Martins started pasteurising ES onsite in Brussels, where they had moved their headquarters to in 1927. After World War II sales slowly increased and Martins remain connected with Guinness right up to this day.**

The history of what we know now as Special Export Stout in Belgium is a trickier thing to pin down (and we are indebted to David Hughes again for the following information) but Martins were bottling a stronger version of ES called ES77 (1.054 gravity which possibly equated to an abv of 5.5% at most?) for the Belgian market, which was a new stout developed for the Armed Forces in 1945 exclusively in Europe, whereas other countries received a slightly weaker version. (This may therefore be the origins of what would be eventually become Guinness Special Export Stout?) Production of stronger export stouts in general had stopped in 1917 and only commenced again in 1945. By 1949 it was reported to be (1.058) and was reported to be a stronger version of Extra Stout which was sweeter with a lower hop rate than FES – this is still true today. It would appear at least that during the following years it gain some extra strength to end up at is current 8% abv. This would make sense as it was a stronger beer prior to the wars so it possibly bounced back, and helpfully, Ron Pattinson shows that an export stout brewed by Guinness was 6.6% abv in 1948, 7.8%in 1963, and 7.3% in 1966. The variance is mostly due to the attenuation of the brewing more so than the gravity of the beer but it still shows and general increase over time.

For comparison, the much-told story about how it came about varies a little depending on the teller but the Guinness website gives the most common story:

So, how did this continental brew come to life? Well, John Martin was an English brewer living in Belgium who shared Arthur’s thirst for exploration and adventure. In 1944, he ventured through the doors of St. James’s Gate with a request to create a truly Irish stout with a fiercer punch and sweeter aftertaste, to suit the palate of his Belgium friends.

The Guinness brewers, never ones to turn down a challenge, of course obliged and that’s what he got. An adventurer’s black gold.

So next time you indulge, close your eyes, and think of… Belgium.

A visit to many other internet sources and the odd book all tell a similar tale, although factual, first-hand content is unavailable in any commonly available, public sources. So what we are left with is the snippets regarding the beer as published by David Hughes plus a little bit of marketing-driven history and a fair degree of conjecture. The actual history of the beer itself is probably a combination of facts and story, complicated by the various Guinness brews and how they changed over the years.

Branded continental glassware for Guinness isn’t new, and even Martins themselves had commissioned embossed glasses for the Belgian trade in 1910, and other bottlers were producing etched glasses with ‘Guinness XX’ on them not long afterwards*** – and there may be earlier examples. And it is highly possible and probable that Jon Martin commissioned these glasses for his export stout from the very late 1940s onwards, although they were also probably used for draught product on occasion. The same glass is shown on a beermat which was dated as being from 1976, so perhaps these glasses lasted up until the 1980s? Either way they should be an incredibly desirable product for the Guinness glass collector, although they seem to be relatively rare on these islands at least. But perhaps, like the early Guinness tankards that were used here in the sixties and seventies, they have become prized possessions on the continent, and sit in collections throughout Belgium, and beyond. They are indisputably the finest pieces of glassware ever produced for the brand, even more attractive than those aforementioned tankards.

And perhaps somewhere in Belgium, in an old and half-hidden pub in some quiet and peaceful town, when you order a bottle of Dublin brewed John Martin’s Special Export Stout, and as you are sitting facing a charming square, the kindly old bar owner will reach over your shoulder and place that beer on the marble-topped table, followed by an old beermat on which is placed one of these gorgeous glasses.

Wouldn’t that be a treat?

Liam K

*The Book of Guinness Advertising page 175 - Jim Davies1998

** ‘A Bottle of Guinness Please’ - David Hughes 2006

*** The Guinness Online Archive

Please note, all written content and the research involved in publishing it here is my own unless otherwise stated and cannot be reproduced elsewhere without permission, full credit to its sources, and a link back to this post. Much of the research was thanks to David Hughes' book, and the glass and beermat image is from the author's own collection. DO NOT STEAL THIS CONTENT!