It’s so early that the dawn has only just started seeping through the windows on the third floor of Hook Norton’s tower brewery. It bounces off the mottled Victorian copper and lights up the faces of the two brewers. Ignoring the sudden brightness, they stare at a 100-year-old temperature dial, where a needle is creeping up as slowly as the sunrise. There’s a quiet sense of anticipation—as if they don’t know what’s about to happen; as if it hasn’t happened thousands of times before.
Suddenly one of the brewers, George, nods, and the other turns a brass wheel that has been worn into dullness by a hundred hands. There’s a hiss and a rumble, then water begins to pour from the wide pipe that comes down through the ceiling. It cascades into the mash tun, chased by drenched Maris Otter malt that fills the room with a bready aroma.
Through the steam, I can see the two have shifted from stillness to action, lifting the counter-weight wooden lid to check temperatures, take samples, and break up dry parts of the mash. Occasionally they’ll check the dial again, and twist the valves that control the flow of hot and cold water into the tun. There are no buttons, no flashing lights, no whirring pumps—just a blur of hands, gravity, and sunlight.
Words + Photoby Jonny Garrett