Although I don’t often drink cider, I have always been partial to its sweet, effervescent qualities. During a recent trip to England ˗ on a train from Sheffield to Liverpool, of all settings ˗ I had the pleasure of sampling a cider that quite literally opened my eyes and expanded my horizons. A Henry Weston’s Vintage Cider, to be exact. Before we get to that, however, a description of the events leading up to this chance meeting is in order.
The Graduation Ceremony
Several years ago, I wrote a chronicle about a teenager who showed up at his grandmother’s house with a suitcase of Bavarian beers for him and his uncle to enjoy together. Fast forward to the summer of 2024, and my nephew has matured into a university graduate. There was no way I was going to miss out on his day in the sun, which was due to take place a fortnight before his 23rd birthday. Eager to be present for that particular celebration as well, I put together a travel itinerary set around those two joyous occasions.
The first leg of my journey involved flying into Edinburgh and catching a train down to Durham ˗ where my nephew had, from time to time, studied ˗ by way of a breathtaking coastal route as far as Newcastle. All that went smoothly enough, as did the graduation ceremony itself the following afternoon.
The celebrations truly kicked off with a late lunch at a great dim sum place that serves Tiger. Having successfully evaded me for almost seven years, I made sure I got my fill. Next up, we made our way to The Swan, a pub where my nephew and his group of friends had frequently congregated over the course of the preceding three years. There, I was introduced to the whole crew and their respective entourages.
In a bid to keep up with the fresh graduates, many of them South African rugby lads, I may have exceeded my limits. Nevertheless, my memories of the night’s events remain vivid up until the point that someone started ordering jugs of Blue Curaçao. My nephew also assures me that I was in a merry but coherent state when he accompanied me back to the hotel around 2 a.m.
A Freakish Accident
I awoke around 9 a.m. with an intense stabbing sensation in my right eye. Careful inspection in the mirror confirmed that it was red and swelling up. Several hours later, at check out time, my vision had become blurry and the pain excruciating, albeit in short blasts. Short enough not to hinder me from functioning, in any case. My nose had started dripping too so I had a roll of toilet paper on me. At the sight of me in the lobby, my sister-in-law kindly handed me her sunglasses, which did provide some relief.
The rest of the family ˗ excluding my nephew, who had a few more days of celebrating in him ˗ were driving back home to London and we had already agreed that they would be dropping me off in Sheffield on their way. Once there, I intended to board a train to Liverpool, where I would be visiting an old friend. We set off from Durham around midday. Broken as I was, I fell asleep in the back seat of the car almost instantaneously.
The pain returned the moment my power nap ended but at least the worst of my hangover was quashed. Seeing as my eye clearly wasn’t getting any better by itself, my sister-in-law suggested that we contact some of the Boots Opticians en route to get me an appointment with one of their resident optometrists. As it turned out, there was one in nearby Doncaster and I was more than welcome to drop in for a quick consultation.
The friendly Boots representative asked me a long list of questions, of which I only failed to answer the first: What happened?
I told him that his guess was as good as mine.
An Inevitable Detour
The optometrist on duty warned me that he was on a tight schedule and would not be able to conduct any tests. Instead, he bade me to sit down in a chair about 2 metres away from his own, close my good eye, and asked me to describe what I saw when I looked at his face. I could make out the contours of his head, not much else. He advised me to head straight to the A&E.
We were fast approaching Sheffield and my sister-in-law was averaging two calls per minute. Before long, someone had referred her to the Emergency Eye Centre (EEC) at the Royal Hallamshire Hospital. At that point, the thought had already occurred to me that I could potentially be walking into an administrative nightmare; a costly one too, no doubt. Would my Dutch health insurance provider be recognised in this post-Brexit era? Would the cost of the treatment I was about to receive even be covered? With clenched teeth, I endured another blast of pain and got my priorities straight.
By the time we pulled up at the hospital, I knew about half a dozen anecdotes about the abysmal state of most NHS facilities and had mentally prepared myself for a long evening. The EEC’s waiting area was almost empty but there was some lively banter going on between a group of staff members at the reception counter. My sister-in-law and I couldn’t help but laugh and got involved ourselves.
It all revolved around one of the receptionists, a lady in her early fifties, who was leaving work early ˗ and not for the first time that month ˗ to see her dentist. Two of her colleagues were jokingly disputing this justification and speculating about the lady’s actual plans.
Steel City Cordiality
Truth be told, I did not believe the lady myself. She seemed far too contented to be on the verge of a root canal treatment. Maybe she had already taken a sedative to calm her nerves. Or maybe she really did have a secret rendezvous to get to ˗ in which case, good for her!
“She’s always being dramatic…”, the young lady with pink streaks in her hair behind the counter told me with a wink. After wishing her colleague good luck she opened my passport, which I had placed in front of her. Let the administrative waltz commence, I thought to myself.
“Ah, there you are! Eliot College, Canterbury ˗ is that correct?”
I could not believe my ears, let alone my luck. Twenty-odd years after moving to the UK and registering myself with the University of Kent Medical Centre, I was still in the system! In true fashion, however, my outright surprise led me to exclaim that half a lifetime had passed since I lived there.
“Doesn’t matter, we’ll sort you out.”, the receptionist said with a smile and gestured that we were free to take a seat. With that settled, I called my friend in Liverpool to let him know that I would be arriving later than planned ˗ much later, potentially. Yet the universe was on my side once again; no more than a couple of minutes into the conversation, my name was already being called.
It was the second of the department jesters, a young man of East Asian heritage. He showed me to a room that felt identical to the one I had entered in Doncaster and, at a leisurely pace, conducted a series of tests. He didn’t seem too concerned and was eager to talk about my time in Canterbury.
A Storm in a Pint Glass
Less than ten minutes after returning to the waiting area, my name was called again ˗ this time in the thick West African accent of the optometrist present. It only took him a moment to determine that I had “a nasty scratch on the cornea of the right eye” but that it was unlikely to affect me for more than a week or two.
In his unperturbed tone and cadence, he explained that these types of injuries tend to heal quickly but are also highly likely to reoccur if the eye is insufficiently moistened. Thus, he would be prescribing an antibiotic eye ointment ˗ to be applied 4 times per day for a total of five days ˗ and jotted down the name of an over-the-counter product that counteracts dry eye sensations on a torn strip of paper. Nothing short of relieved, I thanked him heartily. Truth be told, I would have jumped for joy and clicked my heels out in the hallway had it not been so narrow.
There was more banter at the reception desk while my prescription was being prepared and I walked out of the Royal Hallamshire Hospital feeling as if I had spent the preceding 45 minutes in the company of old friends. I was truly disappointed I would not be staying longer ˗ in Sheffield, mainly; not so much the EEC specifically. When the family dropped me off at the train station, my sister-in-law told me to hang on to her sunglasses for the time being. I would eventually be making my own way down to their place anyway.
The 17:11 to Liverpool
Friday afternoon rush hour was well underway and the train to Liverpool was ram-packed. I had hoisted my suitcase and shoulder bag onto a rack, from where they functioned as a headrest only minimally softer than the adjacent sidewall. The bursts of pain were still coming on strong and the heat radiating from all us aisle-dwellers soon made the carriage unbearably stuffy.
What’s more, the man seated closest to me could not get his earphones to work and thundering fragments of guitar riffs kept on catching me off guard. The startling jolts these brief crescendos of dissonance sent through my system consistently managed to dislodge my head from its position so that it slid off the suitcase and bumped against the sidewall. My circumstances improved considerably the moment I remembered that I had a travel pillow on me.
At Stockport, the halfway mark of the journey, the train emptied out. The man with the incompatible earphones had made way for his neighbour to disembark and subsequently moved into her seat at the window. Glancing up and catching his own reflection in my sister-in-law’s bulky shades, he motioned that the empty seat in front of me was mine if I wanted it. I did not hesitate to take him up on his offer and, before long, we were chatting away.
My newfound travel companion introduced himself as James and, being a Sheffield native, was happy to hear that I had taken such a liking to his home town. A husband and father of two teenage girls, he was making a little solo trip to Liverpool to visit a sister and her family. He knew the port city well and gave me a few sightseeing tips. Upon hearing what I do for a living, he introduced me to Henry Weston.
Henry Weston’s Vintage Cider
James enthusiastically professed to being a craft beer buff but was quick to reveal an even greater fondness of craft ciders. So much so that he had brought along a couple of bottles for the ride. He proposed that we drink them, I eagerly agreed. With that, a half litre bottle of Henry Weston’s Vintage Cider (Medium Dry) was handed to me.
Henry Weston first started making cider from the bittersweet apples grown on his farm in Much Marcle, Herefordshire in 1880. Nearly 150 years on, the Weston family business is renowned and respected for upholding the traditional cider-making methods so deeply rooted in its home county’s heritage. This involves the use of locally grown apples from its own orchards ˗ some 300-acres worth ˗ and those of trusted growers, all located within a 50-mile (80 km) radius of the cider mill. The different varieties of apple enable the creation of ciders with complex profiles, in which sweetness, bitterness, and acidity are balanced to perfection. Weston’s also continue to apply traditional fermentation methods, albeit in combination with modern techniques.
The Vintage Cider range is the cidery’s flagship product. Made from a single year’s harvest and matured in oak vats, these ciders are revered for their rich, full-bodied taste and higher ABV of 8.2%. The Medium Dry version displays all of these qualities, from the heavy notes of ripe apples and oak to a faint warming finish. What struck me most was the absence of the overt sweetness that defines most mainstream ciders I have tried. Instead, an organic, bittersweet taste prevailed. James was in full accord with this assessment ˗ it was his main reason for sticking to craft ciders. That being said, Weston’s do produce lighter, fruitier ciders that appeal to a larger audience as well.
The Comeback Trail
According to age-old belief, cider has the capacity to cure many an ailment. During the 19th century, the drink was often consumed for medicinal purposes and the workers at the Weston cidery would joke that Henry was no ordinary cider maker ˗ he was more of a cider doctor. It was even openly suggested ˗ though not always with equal sobriety ˗ that a pint of Weston’s could cure everything from a common cold to a broken heart. While suggestions of the sort may seem woefully outdated to some, I can attest to feeling better than I had done all day after only two or three sips.
Somewhere in Manchester‘s western suburbs, our train conductor announced that we were running 30 minutes behind schedule. It did not matter. James and I were savouring our delicious craft ciders, touching on all types of topics, from the works of Orwell to the fear of failure that is stifling the ambitions of younger generations in affluent societies. Or is that just another one of life’s recurring themes? Had we been equally anxious and inhibited in our younger years, and just chose not to remember that part?
I am certain that a few more bottles would have led to many more insights and solutions but, as is often the case, there was too little time. Our train rolled into Liverpool Lime St. Station just after 19:30 and James and I parted ways. My friend showed up shortly after and took me to a place that does grilled steaks and pours craft beers. It was my first meal of the day. Be that as it may, my belly had already been amply filled with healthy helpings of good fortune, kindness, and Henry Weston’s Vintage Cider.
